Abby Grange
by Succi
Summary: Sherlock and Molly investigate in the case of Tom's death. While the investigation brings them closer together, Molly's past threatens to tear them apart. Will Sherlock commit the blunder of his lifetime or do the right thing? Whatever that may be…
1. Shadow of a Doubt

**A/N: No, the title is NOT a spelling mistake. Obviously this fic is based on the story** _ **The Adventure of the Abbey Grange**_ **by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (yes, the one where the famous quote "The game is afoot!" comes from), but you don't need to know it to understand this one.**

 **Also feat.: Mycroft, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Toby, OC**

 **Timeline: Some time after series 3 and the (Not-) revival of Moriarty.**

 **Once again I am very grateful that Pipsis took it upon herself to proofread this story. Thank you!**

 **Disclaimer: The following story is based on characters copyrighted by ACD, BBC, Hartwood Films and whoever else owns a piece, lovingly borrowed without** **permission, and without any intent to infringe, annoy or otherwise upset.**

* * *

 **Shadow of a Doubt **

"Keep you in the dark  
You know the all pretend  
Keep you in the dark  
And so it all began."  
–Foo Fighters, _The Pretender_

It was on a bitterly cold and frosty morning, towards the end of winter, and the world's only consulting detective Sherlock Holmes was on his way to the morgue of St. Bartholomew's hospital in London. Well, strictly speaking it was early morning – call it night – for it was 3:30 a.m. The detective just came back from a case in Oxford and was about to check on his cultures in the lab of St. Bart's, as was his custom after finishing a case.

The stairs and corridors that led to the basement – where the morgue and lab were situated – were deserted at this hour, but Sherlock did not mind; he even preferred it this way. The only living person he would encounter down here was the pathologist on duty, which was Mike Stamford. Sherlock preferred working with Molly Hooper, but he was merely here to check on his experiments and subsequently not in need of a pathologist. Although an annoying voice whispered in his head that he would've liked running into Molly, boasting about his brilliance on his latest case. It was hard to shake off the feeling that the morgue was ... not the same... without her. He shook his head in order to make those thoughts disappear and rounded the corner to enter the lab.

As soon as the swinging doors closed behind him, he stopped dead in his tracks. Through the window he could see the profile of Molly Hooper in the fluorescent light of the small office. She leaned over the table, rummaging around in her bag, unearthed a lipstick (the colour would not suit her), an apple, tissues, a penknife and a ridiculously small hairbrush. She didn't seem to have heard him enter, for she was totally focused on what she was doing. Her face was showing signs of distress and, could it be... tears? Sherlock squinted. Yes, there were tear streaks on her cheeks, her eyes and nose were red and swollen.

Suddenly Sherlock felt his stomach turn into knots. He was torn: She had not seen him yet. Should he just leave and act as if nothing had happened? Or should he... He stopped mid-thought. Should he what? Comfort her? With words, with physical contact? He knew that was probably the right thing to do, but when did he ever do the right thing? Especially when Molly Hooper was involved… So why break with that tradition?

Maybe because somehow he wanted to do something to make her feel better. The problem was just that he had no idea what.

Dealing with gruesome murder was easy, but dealing with crying people – a crying Molly – was a whole different matter. Two years ago he would have just walked away without giving it a second thought, but he had changed and that made things more complex (much to his chagrin).

Sherlock sighed deeply and was still contemplating how to proceed, when suddenly Molly's head turned in his direction, and she stared at him like a deer caught in the headlights. But it was not so much fear in her eyes, it was more a desperate urgency in them that left him confused. Now the consulting detective knew that it was too late, he could not leave, and somehow he was glad that fate (if one believed in such a thing) had taken the decision out of his hands.

* * *

Hastily Molly wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and blew her nose with one of the tissues she had just put out of her bag. She put everything back into the bag and took a deep breath. She felt nervous all of a sudden. She tried to tell herself that it was absurd, because she had known that he would come. John had texted her that the case was over, and she knew as soon as Sherlock was back in London after a case he checked on his cultures. He always did that, no matter what time it was. Old habits die hard.

But then, it was fairly understandable that she was nervous. He was the man she still loved, the world's only consulting detective, and the man who knew everything about you by just looking at your shoe laces. And she could not bear the thought that he would look through her right now. It would ruin everything. It would ruin her, what was left of her. She had not wanted him to see her cry. She had told herself that tonight was the last time she would cry over him. She had shed too many tears because of him.

Molly balled her hands into fists (she was glad that they did not shake anymore) and closed her eyes for a moment to calm her racing thoughts. She was not sure if she wanted him to ask her what was wrong or not. A part of her longed to talk to him about it, to get it off her chest, before he would cruelly deduce her.

Another part was desperately afraid of such a conversation. And while one voice in her head screamed at her that he had changed, that he cared and that he would help her, another one reminded her that people did not change and that he would not understand, that he was not interested and that whatever he might have said and done, he plainly did not care. Unfortunately that was the voice she listened to.

The pathologist zipped up her bag, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and turned to face the tall man outside the door.

* * *

When Molly stood in front of him, he could not help, but let his gaze wander over her petit frame. Deducing was second nature to him, and as opposed to what John thought, he could not just turn it off, even if his best friend found it inappropriate at times.

The pathologist was nervous, confused, sad, self-conscious, tired and most of all desperately trying to put up a brave face. Sherlock had to hold back a comment that he found it insulting that she would even try to disguise her state. She was supposed to know better. But he swallowed his words and instead regarded her with cold eyes.

She cleared her throat and tried to sound nonchalant, "Hi Sherlock, so you're back from Oxford. How was the case? I did not really get what it was about. John said something about lost 25 cents or a Rugby player?"

Sherlock waved it off, while still trying to figure out what was wrong with her. "Doesn't matter, merely a 7. I'm sure John will describe it in length on his blog and find a fancy title for it."

Molly gave him a forced smile and shrugged. "I figure Mary's glad to have her husband back?"

Normally Sherlock would not have bothered with small talk, but it gave him the opportunity to study Molly more closely in order to deduce why she was so out of sorts.

So he replied in a bored tone, "I guess so, although John did not come back to London. Mary and the baby went to Oxford to spend a few romantic days together." He put the word "romantic" under air quotation marks and said it as if the word would poison him.

Then he added, "I really don't see what's romantic about a city full of drunk students and sharing a hotel room with a crying baby." He shook his head, as if the thought disgusted him.

Molly almost had to laugh at this. She passed him and went over to the table where Sherlock's favourite microscope was situated.

Sherlock followed her with his eyes, still not knowing what was going on in that mind of hers.  
He followed her while she picked up some file she had left on the table and put it into the drawer where it obviously belonged.

Molly expected Sherlock to sit down at his microscope and begin with his ritual, but he remained standing and stared at her. She felt his eyes on her back, and she had to fight back the urge to shrink under his intense gaze.

"What are you doing here?" he asked suddenly.

Molly took longer than necessary to put the file into the drawer, but she could not look him into the eyes. Therefore she answered with her back towards him, "Swapped shifts with Mike Stamford."

Sherlock found that the carelessness in her voice was almost convincing. Molly's acting skills had highly improved over the years – given the need (he could probably take most of the credit for it) – yet she still could not fool him.

For a moment he contemplated asking her why they had changed shifts, but he decided that it did not matter, and he did not really care. He was busy telling himself that he was NOT glad that she was here. That it did not matter if it were Mike or Molly.

Sherlock blinked and realized that at some point during his inner monologue Molly had turned around. All of a sudden he was the one being under a perceptive gaze, and he found that he did not like it. Was that how his friends felt every time he looked at them? How could they stand it?

Molly's lips twitched in an attempt at a smile, as if she had read his thoughts and she pointed towards the cupboard and the fridge where his experiments were stored.  
"You know it's not necessary that you come running to the morgue to check on your cultures every time you've left the city for a case," she stated.

He put his hands into his coat pockets. "I know it's not necessary, but I...," he stopped mid-sentence. He had been about to say, "I want to." What was wrong with that? Maybe because he wanted to come here not only because to look after his experiments, but to see...

Before he could finish this disturbing – and altogether absurd – thought, Molly stated, "You don't trust me."

She crossed her arms in front of her chest, but despite her body language she did not seem offended.

He shook his head, "I don't trust your colleagues."

Molly only nodded and walked over to the fridge to get one of the samples he currently studied.

He watched her take it out and put it onto the table and noticed that she still seemed distracted, as if her mind was miles away. He started to become frustrated, because he could not deduce what was the matter with her.

And as usual when he felt inferior he lashed out on the people round him, "Your taste in clothes has always been atrocious, but a turtle neck shirt? Seriously? Your neck is too short for such a shirt. It makes you look like... Well, let's say: You live up to its name. If I didn't know it any better, I'd say you're trying to hide a hickey."

Molly froze in her movement, and he could see a moment of panic in her eyes. Slowly she reached one hand up to touch the fabric of the shirt at her neck and then looked at him.

Sherlock felt like he had swallowed a stone. He had not wanted to be insulting, but it had happened. Again. He knew he should apologise, before she would start to cry again, but his tongue was tied. All clever words had fled his mind.

He could see Molly swallow, then she tried to hold her head a little higher, when she said, "I'll leave you to your experiments."

With that she left behind a consulting detective who was not only clueless why Molly Hooper had been acting weird, but also why he felt disappointed that she had not added, "If you'll need something, I'll be in the morgue," like she usually did.

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 **A/N: For once a purely selfish note: Someone talked me into participating in the Fandom contest over at inkitt dot com– with** _ **Copper Beaches**_ **. So if you liked the story here, it would be amazing if you'd hit the "Like"-button there and support my story. Thank you!**


	2. Some Lies are Love

**A/N: Again, I would like to thank my wonderful readers, followers, reviewers and especially my beta Pipsis, who all support my stories in such a wonderful way.**

 **Trigger warning: Mentions of suicide.**

 **The chapter heading is a quote from** _ **A Feast for Crows**_ **by George R.R. Martin**

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 **Some lies are love**

"Never hide things from hardcore thinkers. They get more aggravated, more provoked by confusion than the most painful truths."  
― Criss Jami

Two days later Sherlock was not only bored out of his mind, but also extremely frustrated. True, those two frames of mind usually went hand in hand (his landlady, his former flat mate and the wall knew all too well), but this time the circumstances were a bit different: Sherlock was bored because he did not have a new case (he was so languid, he had almost investigated in the case of an envelope filled with orange pips) and he was frustrated, because his mind kept wandering back to Molly Hooper.

Why had she been so upset? Had it something to do with him? Usually he had no problems figuring her out, but this time…

What was different about this time? He blamed the absence of a good case for his condition. Why else would he bother to think about Molly Hopper if not out of utter boredom? His treacherous mind tried to suggest another reason, but he refused to listen. It was utterly ridiculous, simply impossible! He was Sherlock Holmes, he did not indulge in… that kind of thing. He was not interested in…

His thoughts were interrupted by noises from downstairs. Two people had entered the building, and he heard Mrs Hudson join them. Slowly they climbed the stairs. The two people were a man and a woman – and he could deduce from their gait that they were grieving. He heard their muffled voices outside his door.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," came the voice of his landlady through the door, "He was such a sweet boy. We were all very fond of him."

A female voice thanked her and then there was a knock on his door.

Sherlock did not bother to say something, because he knew Mrs Hudson would open the door anyway. Any talks about privacy on his part had proven to be fruitless.

Just as he had expected the door was opened and in stepped his landlady followed by a married couple (wedding rings) in their early sixties. They had lost their son, obviously. The grief was clearly edged on the woman's face, whereas on her husband's face Sherlock could see more repressed anger than sadness about their son's death.

"Sherlock," Mrs Hudson began, "Mr and Ms Hopkins have come to see you."

The consulting detective bit back a comment about stating the obvious. Somehow their name sounded familiar. Hopkins… where had he heard it before?

Instead of saying something he nodded and gestured them to sit down on the couch.  
Sherlock went over to the chair across from the couch and sat down.

Mr and Mrs Hopkins looked from the consulting detective to Mrs Hudson, as if asking for her consent. When she nodded encouragingly they hesitantly made their way over to the couch and sat down.

"Tea would be nice Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said.

The older lady gave him a look. "Not your housekeeper, my dear. Just this once."  
With that she went back downstairs to prepare the hot beverage.

Sherlock waved his hand imperiously, "She always says that."  
Mr Hopkins forced a smile.

Sherlock's patience for social niceties had exceeded and he started his interrogation, "Why do you seek me out in the case of your son's demise?"

The couple looked befuddled for a moment. Sherlock held up a hand, "Please refrain from stating how brilliant it is. It is my job to observer such things and I agree on my brilliance. So, how did he die?"

Mrs Hopkins cast her eyes down, obviously fighting the urge to break into tears, while her husband studied the detective. Sherlock could see that he was looking at him in a manner he was quite familiar with. Mr Hopkins was a police officer.

And while Sherlock was content with himself for deducing that, the man on his couch said something, he had not expected, "Apparently Molly hasn't told you."

Sherlock had enough training not to let his surprise show on his face. How come they knew Molly Hooper? And why was he on first-name-basis with her? He desperately searched his brain for the possible connection, but could not come up with one.

Of course, he refrained from letting them know that he was quite clueless, but asked another question instead, "What is it that Molly has not told me about?" He hated it when other people knew more than him.

It was not Mr Hopkins who answered, but his wife, who told the rug beneath her feet, "That Thomas has died." She drew a shaking breath.

Sherlock's mind raced. Thomas... Did Molly have a friend whose name was Thomas? Did Molly have any friends at all – apart from her colleague Meena? How come he did not know such a thing? Was he really that oblivious to what was going on in her personal life? No, he had known about Meat Dagger and... He stopped mid-thought. Meat Dagger's name... What was it? He searched his mind palace. Somewhere in Molly's room, in some drawer he had stored the name. Tom. His name had been Tom – Thomas. And suddenly he knew why the name Hopkins had sounded so familiar: Those were Tom Meat Dagger's parents sitting in front of him. He wanted to slap his palm against his forehead for his stupidity. He was so surprised by this sudden revelation that he almost blurted out, "You're Meat Dagger's parents!"

Fortunately he did not, but cleared his throat and said, "No, apparently she has not told me. So, what happened?"

Mr Hopkins explained, while his wife kept staring on the floor. "He was found dead in his flat, with a head wound, a broken neck and..." The officer's voice faltered and had trouble going on.

Sherlock used the pause to interrupt, "So, the police think it was suicide."

Now Mrs Hopkins lifted her gaze off the floor and looked at the detective with red-rimmed eyes. Since her words seemed to be caught in her throat, she opted or nodded.

Sherlock leaned back into his seat. "But you don't believe it."

Finally the woman found her voice again, "How do you know?"

Sherlock sighed. This was beginning to feel tedious, "A mere suicide would not have caused you to come for me."

"The police refuse to investigate," Mr Hopkins said with anger in his voice.

Sherlock did nothing to hide the boredom in his voice, "Why want a complex explanation when a simple one is at hand?" He could hear mind palace-John berating him, "Rude!" But he did not care. Those were just parents who refused to believe that their precious son would do something as scandalous as committing suicide.

Mr Hopkins' jaw tensed and anger blazed in his eyes. "All we're asking for is for you to look into this. He was your friend. I think that's the least you could do."

Sherlock was about to tell him that no, Tom had definitely not been a friend of his, but the desperate plead of Mrs Hopkins kept him from it, "Please, Mr Holmes! Our son did not kill himself!"

Just as the consulting detective was about to berate her, the door was opened and in waltzed Mrs Hudson with tea and biscuits. She set the tray down on the coffee table and then looked from the couple to Sherlock.

"So Sherlock, I figure you're helping Tom's parents, don't you? I imagine Molly would very much appreciate it."

Her voice was sweet, and innocent, but the look she gave her tenant was anything but. It was a silent threat, as not to contradict her. And although Sherlock would have never admitted it, he did not want to be on Mrs Hudson's bad side. He would not have gone so far as to say he was afraid of her, but...

He stared right back at her and mulled it over in his head. He did not have a case at the moment, and this one would probably be solved within 24 hours. Additionally Mrs Hudson was right: He could do it for Molly. She would appreciate the gesture, and a grateful Molly was more likely to provide him with body parts.

He sighed deeply and turned his gaze back onto the couple on the couch.  
"I will have a look into it," he said.

Mrs Hopkins' eyes light up, but before she could utter a word, Sherlock went on brusquely, "If you would excuse me, I have a busy schedule." He looked pointedly at the door and heard Mrs Hudson clearing her throat, clearly unhappy with his behaviour. He ignored it.

Mrs and Mrs Hopkins got up from the couch and did not seem half as offended as Sherlock had thought (hoped).

Mrs Hopkins stretched out his hand, "Of course, I understand. You are a very busy man, Mr Holmes. Thank you."

They shook hands.

"Thank you Mr Holmes. I know you will find the truth of what happened to our boy." Mrs Hopkins' eyes shone with tears. Sherlock only nodded.

Just before they were to step outside his door, Mr Hopkins added, "Molly knows where to reach us. Please keep us updated."

Something about the way she said Molly's name made Sherlock pause.

"I will," Sherlock lied and then he closed the door behind them.

He turned to Mrs Hudson, who gave him a look, "You know, it was rude to kick them out like that. They did not even have a sip of the tea." She crossed her arms in front of her chest.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh please, I was way too kind to them. Under different circumstances, I would have thrown them out after their first sentence."

His landlady shook her head and made her way towards the door, but Sherlock stopped her with a question, "Why did you say we were very fond of him? The only one who was, was Molly."

The older lady looked at the detective with a sad smile, as if pitying him for not understanding, "Sometimes kindness means to stretch the truth a bit." Then she left him alone in his flat.

Sherlock contemplated her words for a moment, and found that he was not sure if he agreed. How was stretching the truth better than lying? Sure, he was not against lying – it was kind of a necessity in his job and he was not a good person – but were good people not supposed to tell the truth? Would Molly lie to him in order to be kind? She had lied because of him – for him. He had made her a liar. And why was he thinking of the pathologist again? Probably because of the case.

He grabbed his phone from the table and pressed speed dial. After ringing three times, Lestrade picked up, "Sherlock, I've already texted you, there is no new case."

The consulting detective demanded to know, "Why didn't you tell me that Meat Dagger died?"

For a moment, there was silence on the other end of the line. The inspector was clearly surprised by that question.  
Finally he sighed and said, "So, Stanley contacted you. I suspected he would."

"Who?" Sherlock was irritated that Lestrade had not answered his question.

"Stanley Hopkins, Tom's father. He's a copper in Sydenham."

"You knew he would contact me, then why didn't you tell me?"

Again Lestrade sighed, "I didn't know, I just had a hunch."

"You had a hunch?"

"You have your deductions, normal people have a hunch."

Sherlock stared pacing in his living room. This conversation was rather annoying. "You can't compare a conclusion drawn from an observation with having a hunch."

Now Lestrade got defensive, "What's the matter with you? Is John still in Oxford? You need to find someone for the times John is away. You are unbearable without a babysitter."

Sherlock growled, "John is extending his stay."

"I see."

"So, why didn't you tell me about Meat Dagger's sudden demise?"

Lestrade explained with a strained voice, "I didn't tell you about Tom's death, because I didn't think you would be interested. It was an accident, probably suicide, no third party negligence."

"So what was it now: an accident or suicide?"

"Hard to tell. According to the preliminary tox screen he was full of anti-depressant and alcohol. But the official cause of death was a broken neck. He fell and hit his head, so..." His voice trailed off for a moment. There was a pause, before he continued, "So, his parents want you to investigate?"

"Yes."

There was silence on Lestrade's end of the line again, and Sherlock suspected the inspector nodded his head in understanding. Sherlock was just about to ask a question, when Lestrade asked, "Did you talk to Molly?"

Sherlock was confused, "Why would I talk to Molly?"

Now it was the inspector who sounded frustrated, "Maybe because Tom is her former fiancé..."

Sherlock did not respond to that, but demanded, "I will need the case file and have a look at his flat."

"Whatever. I'll have a copy ready by tomorrow. But Sherlock, if you talk to Molly..." but the detective inspector did not come any further, for the line went dead.

Sherlock laid the phone back on the table when a small smile formed on his lips. Although this day had started out looking rather bleak, it had turned out to end rather well. He did not only have a new case (although a quite boring one), but had also solved the mystery of Molly Hooper's strange behaviour of two days ago.

* * *

 **A/N: Sorry that the updates will take a bit longer than usual this time. I have already written about half of the story, but it needs careful planting, so please forgive the waiting time. I will try to keep it as short as possible.  
Thanks for reading!**


	3. Notorious

**A/N: Thank you all for reading, following, favouriting, reviewing, … You are all such a great bunch of people!**

 **The chapter heading (as was the one of chapter 1) is the title of a film by Alfred Hitchcock. And there will be others throughout this story. Of course I do not own them.**

* * *

 **Notorious **

"Of course it was wrong to want to change people, but what else could you possible want to do with them?" – Edward St Aubyn

On the next day, Sherlock went to New Scotland Yard to pick up the copy of the police report Lestrade had promised him. Wincing inwardly, he had to admit that he had become so used to having an assistant that he had forgotten how annoying such errands were. He made a mental note to send someone of his homeless network next time.

After that he went to St. Bart's, for a talk with a certain pathologist was in need.

When he entered the lab (the morgue had been empty), Molly was sitting at a microscope looking at some samples. Sherlock always deliberately pushed the swinging doors hard enough so that his entrance was sure to be noticed.

A gust of wind hit Molly and she knew, without turning around that Sherlock Holmes had entered her lab. He had perfected dramatic entrances – and exits for that matter. She could feel him standing by the door, impatiently waiting for her to acknowledge his presence. Slowly she sat up from her hunched position over the microscope and turned around in her seat to greet the consulting detective. Her eyes landed on the lean frame of the consulting detective.

"Hello Sherlock. What brings you here today?"

Her voice sounded cheerful, although she did not feel that way. She felt better than last time he had paid Bart's a visit, but was still far away from being fine. And she was certain that it would take some time until she would feel fine again. She knew she would, one day. After all, she had gone through such a situation before. But "one day" was still a long way to go.

Instead of greeting her as well, or answering her question, Sherlock merely stated, "I know what happened Wednesday night and why you were upset."

The knowing smile on the detective's face made Molly's blood run cold.

For a second the pathologist looked absolutely horrified, and Sherlock found her reaction a bit exaggerated. But then again, Molly Hooper was a very emotional person.

The expression left her face almost as soon as it had appeared, and had he not been Sherlock Holmes, he would have probably missed it.

She got up and walked over to the other side so that the table was now between them, and Sherlock had the distinct feeling that she was putting some distance between them on purpose.

"What do you mean?" she asked innocently.

Sherlock gave her a look that clearly transported his annoyance at her daring to play dumb on him. She cast her eyes down and drew a nervous breath.

"Why didn't you tell me?" There was definitely accusation in his tone.

Molly felt alternately hot and cold and her palms became sweaty. It had been pointless to try to hide it from him – she had feared as much. She had wanted to avoid this, because she did not know how he would react. Even after knowing him for years, he was still unpredictable, an enigma. It was part of why she had been intrigued in the first place, but now Molly wished she knew what she was in for.

She kept her eyes on the floor. "And what would you have done?"

Sherlock had to strain to hear her, her voice was so low. He wanted to answer, but found that he lacked a response. What would he have done? He had asked himself the same question and had not come up with an answer so far. Would he have comforted her? Would he have dared to? Probably not. Would he have said the right thing? Definitely not. Would he have said something spiteful or hurtful to cover up his uncertainty about the situation? More likely. He did not want to admit it, but that made him feel a bit… sorry.

So instead of giving her an answer – simply because he had none – he told her, "Meat Dagger's parents have paid me a visit."

Molly's head shot up to meet his calculating gaze and again her eyes widened.

Sherlock took it as a sign that she considered it rude of him calling her ex-boyfriend by his infamous nickname. He searched his brain. Luckily he had finally stored Meat Dagger's name in a new room in his mind palace – after all, he was a case now.

So he rephrased his earlier statement, "Tom's parents don't believe that he's committed suicide or that it's been an accident. Hence they've asked me to investigate."

Now the pathologist cocked her head to the side and eyed him curiously, as if trying to figure something out, as if she was looking for some clue that was hidden behind his pale eyes. Somehow Sherlock felt like a specimen under a microscope, and he did not like it at all.

It seemed like forever until Molly seemed to have found what she had been looking for and stated, "I see."

She nodded and her eyes left his and her stare became vacant, as if remembering something.

Now it was Sherlock's turn to study her face more closely. Somehow her behaviour seemed off. He had suspected her to have more to say to his admission than, "I see." Then again, he should probably be grateful that she had not broken out in tears again at the mention of her ex-boyfriend's demise. He needed to get back to business, so he could wrap up this annoying case as soon as possible.

He cleared his throat in order to get Molly's attention, who seemed to be miles away. His action had its desired effect, for Molly's eyes focused on the consulting detective again.

Having her attention again, he asked, "You did not perform the post mortem, why?"

Molly gave him a look as if she thought he was mad.

"Seriously? He was my ex-fiancé. I think you will understand that I didn't want to do his autopsy."

"No."

"No?!" Molly could not believe his nerve. Even Sherlock Holmes could not be that thick when dealing with emotions, could he? But obviously he was, because he did not bat an eyelash.

Instead of reacting to her outburst, he added, "I am not sure if ex-fiancé is an existing term."

Molly crossed her arms in front of her chest and only stared at him.

Sherlock took in her posture and concluded that it was probably time he explained his surprise about her not performing the autopsy.

"You are a perfectionist. You'd want the best to do it, and you are the best. Subsequently it would only be logical for you to perform the post mortem."

Molly wondered how it was possible that he had somehow – with his strict rationalism – managed to turn this into a compliment. Sort of…

For a moment the pathologist was too baffled to speak. She shook her head to clear her thoughts, which seemed to be spinning. She tried another approach, "After your not-death I was not allowed to do another post mortem on someone I knew."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side as if contemplating her statement. Then he said, "I am sure we can arrange something."

Molly sighed and let her hands fall to her sides. She did not really know what to do. Could she stand doing the autopsy? Could she bare it? She was no Sherlock Holmes, she could not compartmentalize her feelings like he could. She lacked the skills to lock them up somewhere in the back (or cellar) of her mind. She had learned over time to push some of them away and ignore them, but was she ready for this?

Sherlock's demanding voice stopped her musing, "Investigate with me."

He did not phrase it like a question, but more like a command.

"What?" Molly could not help but ask taken by surprise.

Molly could see that Sherlock had trouble holding back rolling his eyes, for he hated to explain himself. He was used to people not questioning his demands, especially not her. But she had become bolder and braver. She dared to pick holes in his arguments nowadays, and she had even dared to contradict him on one or two occasions.

"John's not here and I need an assistant," Sherlock replied annoyed and as if the reason why she should be part of his investigation was the most obvious thing in the world.

Molly raised her eyebrows. "I should help you investigate? Don't you think that would be a bit of a clash of interests?"

"Why? You and Meat... Tom were not together anymore when he died and you never really loved him. He was just a substitute for me. A silly notion. You thought he'd help you get over your infatuation with me. So, you cannot be too devastated by his demise. Hence I don't see any problem."

Molly could not believe how nonchalant he had said those words, without any emotion, whatsoever. As if he was telling her that he had bought a new pair of shoes.

A well-known lump formed in Molly's throat, and she was not sure if she was more angry or embarrassed by his statement. Be that as it may, she was hurt.

Her small hands balled into fists and she said through clenched teeth, "I thought you have changed since the fall and then you say things like this…"

For a second Sherlock was taken aback. Molly's stance told him that he had said something very bad that had hurt her. Her cheeks were red and her breathing shortened. She was embarrassed and that made her angry.

He did not know why, but her statement had felt like a slap across the face. He had changed since the fall. He knew it with absolute clarity. Even though he had not wanted to admit it at first – he had been enraged at himself for letting feelings enter his mind – at some point he had had to come to terms with the fact that he was not the man who had died anymore. After his death another Sherlock Holmes had resurrected. If that was a good or a bad thing was yet to determine.

But he was sure Sherlock 2.0 was more considerate of his friend's feelings and that they were to value that. Now hearing Molly say she doubted his change for the better, stirred something inside him that he did not know how to name. That was why he detested feelings – they were so complex, almost impossible to label.

The detective refused to go into her statement, therefore he said, "So I take it you refuse to help me."

Molly sighed deeply, "Don't give me that, Sherlock."  
She refused to let him guilt trip her.

He threw his hands up in exasperation. "John is gone, and I need an assistant."

"Well, then ask someone else."

"There is no one!"

They stared at each other for a moment. Somehow Sherlock's statement made Molly ache for him, for she knew that he felt lonely inside, even if he would never admit it. She thought about suggesting to ask Wiggins for help, but she had not seen him for some time now and was not even sure if they were still in contact. Hence she refrained from it.

She closed her eyes for a moment to escape Sherlock's intense gaze that threatened to make her feel slightly dizzy.

When she opened them again, Sherlock's look had changed. He was still looking at her intently, but the stubborn determination in his eyes was gone. It had been replaced by a calm and collected look.

When he spoke his next words, his voice mirrored his state, "Would you at least do me the favour of looking at the autopsy report? That is all I'm asking of you."

Molly held his gaze. She appreciated his offer of a compromise, for she knew how hard it was for him to give in and meet her halfway. Still she did not feel confident enough to decide on an answer right know. She needed a bit of time to evaluate the situation.

Therefore she answered him, "I'll think about it."


	4. Oxford calling

**A/N: Thank you all so much for your constant support. Sorry to not PM everyone this time.  
I hope you'll have a wonderful 2016 full of everything you wish for!  
**

* * *

 **Oxford calling**

Love is… never having to bury the bodies alone.

Sherlock sat on the couch in his living room studying the police report of Tom's death Lestrade had provided him with. The photographs of the crime scene lay scattered around the table and floor. The consulting detective thought that it was one of the few good things about living by himself again: No flatmate to complain about him decorating the sitting room with gruesome pictures of crime scenes. More than once John had asked Sherlock to take off those photographs, for his dates found them disturbing. The consulting detective had presented his best friend a pragmatic solution, "Well, then just don't take them to Baker Street."

Sherlock looked intently at the photographs of a lifeless Tom on the floor of his sitting room: His dark handsome, aquiline features were convulsed into a spasm of vindictive hatred, which had set his dead face in a terrible fiendish expression. Beneath his head was a pool of blood, which looked more black than red in the pictures. The setting suggested what Lestrade had told him: Tom falling and hitting his head on the coffee table while being drunk and under the influence of medicine. As simple as that. The photos of the rest of the flat supported this hypothesis: A bottle of wine, anti-depressants, sleeping pills and all in all an untidy bachelor's flat. But from the pictures alone it was hard to draw a conclusion if the victim had committed suicide by overdosing his medication and then hit his head while falling, or if it had been an accident. But so far Sherlock could not detect any indication of third party negligence. They were still waiting for the tox screen, which would probably answer any remaining questions.

Hence the detective again doubted his decision on taking up the case, for in his eyes there was not really a case. But it was too late to dwell on that now. He had told the Hopkins he would look into it and that he would do. He was a man who stood by his word.

If only he could convince Molly that it would be so much easier if she agreed to help him. He tried to come up with something that would get her 'round, but he did not really know what. Three years ago he would have taken advantage of her infatuation with him and tried to sweet-talk her into doing it, complimenting her hairstyle or giving her a "meaningful" look and an enigmatic smile, but those times were gone and oddly enough he could not find it in him to shed a tear over it.

Sure it was more frustrating now at times that Molly did not fall for it anymore (although he was sure if he really tried he could still do it) and even talked back from time to time, but after coming back he had thought about how he could show his gratitude for what the pathologist had done for him, and he came up with the conclusion that it would be best to show her he respected her and that meant no more manipulation.

Of course he came up with some loopholes – after all it may be necessary to manipulate her in order to keep her safe – but he was determined to be as honest as possible with her from now on. Subsequently manipulating her was out of the question.

To his annoyance Sherlock's musing was interrupted by his phone going off. He grabbed it from the armrest. The caller ID told him it was his former flatmate. The consulting detective was not surprised. He had been fairly sure that John would call him today to check up on him. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock leaned back on the couch and picked up.

"John."

"Hey, how's it going, mate?"

"Small talk, seriously, mate?" Sherlock scoffed.

"Well, as opposed to you some people still try to follow conversation etiquette."

"You've known me long enough to know that I don't care about those kind of things."

There was a small pause, and then Sherlock added, "But then again, you've never been exceptionally quick in thinking."

John growled on the other end of the line already asking himself why he had even bothered to call in the first place.

"And still I am your best friend. Maybe you should think about that," the former army doctor added for consideration.

"I didn't become friends with you because of your stunning intellect," Sherlock clarified.

"Are you calling me stupid?" asked John incredulously.

"No, I'm just saying, that there are people I know that have a higher IQ than you. Like…," the consulting detective took a moment to come up with a name, "... for instance Molly Hooper. Still you are my best friend."

"You are saying I am stupid!"

"I am paying you a compliment!"

"By saying someone else is more intelligent than me? How is that a compliment?" John shook his head, although he knew his best friend on the other end of the line could not see it.

Said person went on with his justification, "Objectively speaking Molly is more intelligent than you are."

Had Sherlock been near, John would have given him a death glare. But since he was not, he did not have much of a choice than to make his irritation known my exhaling loudly.

The man sitting in 221B explained further in order to sooth his friend, "You are more intelligent than the average person, but… You have other character traits I value."

There was a long silence on the other end of the line and Sherlock was tempted to ask if John was still there, but he could hear his breathing, so he figured he was.

John had fallen silent, because he was busy convincing himself that it was better to let it slide. He knew Sherlock had not meant to be insulting. Or at least he hoped so. Therefore he took a deep breath and spoke up again, "Speaking of Molly, there's a reason why I called."

"I know, to check up on me."

"No." Both knew that this was only partly true. Still Sherlock did not contradict him and let John continue, "I wanted to tell you that Tom died. Molly's ex boyfriend, you remember?"

"John, as usual, you are way too late. I am already on the case."

Now John was confused, "Case? What case?"

"Tom's case. His parents paid me a visit. According to the police it is not clear if his death was an accident or suicide, but they are convinced it was... something else. You know how parents are. So... sentimental."

John held back a comment that he was now a parent as well.

Sherlock continued, "Mrs Hudson forced me to take the case – which is not really a case to be honest. I was just looking at the photos of the crime scene when you called and so far everything seems to point to the logical conclusion the parents will not acknowledge."

"I see." John needed a moment to take in all this information. He was only gone for a few days and Sherlock took up cases that demanded careful handling of grieving parents and empathy. In his mind different scenarios played out – one worse than the other.

"How is Molly handling it?" John voiced one of his many concerns aloud.

"She cried a bit, but tries to put up a brave face, which makes her a bit... irritating and irrational. I told her to help me with the investigation, but she..."

But Sherlock could not finish his sentence, for John interrupted him, "You did what?!"

"Didn't you listen? I ..."

"You insensitive bastard!"

Sherlock's tone took on an angry edge, "I don't see why you are getting all emotional about it. I need a competent pathologist and Molly Hooper happens to be one."

John took a deep breath in order to calm down a bit. And reprimanded, "There are other competent pathologists at Bart's, Sherlock. Why drag Molly into this? Tom was her fiancé, for God's sake!"

Sherlock got up from the couch and started pacing in order to vent his spleen. His voice raised as his agitation grew, "She has the potential to become important to me… I mean… for the case."

He stopped dead in his tracks and took a deep breath.

John on the other end of the line had raised both eyebrows at Sherlock's outburst and unintentional slip of the tongue.

When the consulting detective went on, his voice was monotone, "Molly Hooper could become important to the case. She is practically the only one of us who knew Tom."

"We all knew Tom," John interjected.

Sherlock waived a dismissive hand. "Well, not really."

"You mean you did not know him. But we did," the doctor chastised.

Sherlock remained silent and went over to stand by the window. His blogger tried another approach, "Listen Sherlock, I've noticed that you're trying to make an effort lately, and..."

This time it was the doctor who was interrupted by his best friend, "How? You are barely here."

John felt himself getting worked up again. "Oh, how dare you! I've just spent a whole week with you in Oxford – away from my family. We've talked about this, Sherlock, I have another child to look after now. It is time for you to grow up."

Sherlock growled and was about to reply, when his mobile indicated an incoming text. He took a look, John remaining silent on his end of the line.

Sherlock's eyes flew over the text. He held the phone towards his ear again and told John loftily, "Seems like Molly's not as touchy as you about the whole thing. I just got a text from her. She's in."

John groaned, "God, Sherlock, promise me to at least try to show some empathy. Even if you have to fake it."

Sherlock was only listening with one ear anymore. When he did not reply, John said more urgently, "She has a good influence on you, don't hurt her. Sherlock, did you hear me? Be nice to Molly, or I'll send my wife after you!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Alright." And before John could berate him anymore, he had hung up.

The consulting detective scrolled back to Molly's text.

 **I'll help. What do you need? MH**

Sherlock typed back:

 **I'll arrange for you to get a copy of the files. Meet me at Tom's flat tomorrow at 10 a.m. SH**

Her reply was almost instant:

 **OK. See you then. MH**

For a second Sherlock considered replying "Thank you," but dismissed the thought instantly. What had gotten into him? He had never bothered with such useless niceties before. Shaking his head in irritation he went downstairs to see if Mrs Hudson was willing to provide him with tea and biscuits.


	5. Lines one should not cross

**A/N: Since some people asked… Yes, the names, places, cases etc. are all taken from ACD's canon, or somehow related to it or to some of its tributes. But don't worry if you don't recognize the references as such, the story will still make sense.**

 **Thank you all for your patience, encouragement, comments, follows… You are the best!**

* * *

 **Lines one should not cross**

"The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes."  
― Arthur Conan Doyle, _The Hound of the Baskervilles_

Molly had given it a lot of thought. Maybe it was masochistic – it was definitely masochistic – but she had come to terms with the fact that she seemed to have a masochistic streak, for what other explanation was there for her love for an ADD sociopath? But after considering Sherlock's request (well, order...), she had finally come to the decision that it was for the best if she helped him with the investigation. She had no illusions that it was going to be easy, but she was convinced that she could do it. Maybe trying to see Tom's death from an investigator's point of view might help her deal with it? That way she might feel a bit more like she was in control of the situation, and that was a feeling Molly Hooper longed to feel again: being in control and not feeling like her life was controlled by others.

At 10:00 a.m. sharp the world's only consulting detective got out of a cap (Molly wondered how he managed to always find a cap when he needed one) in front of Tom's building and went over to Molly who was waiting from him. He noticed that she did not wear a turtle neck shirt this time, but a pink scarf to protect herself from the cold.

"Morning, Molly," he acknowledged her by nodding.

"Hi, Sherlock."

There was an awkward pause for a moment, in which neither of them did seem to know how to proceed. Molly knew Sherlock detested small talk, so she did not dare ask him how he was or – God forbid – how awful the weather was. And Sherlock on the other hand, felt like he was supposed to ask her how she was, but felt that it would be weird, given the fact that he usually did not bother with small talk.

So after shuffling uncomfortably from one foot to the other (Molly) and putting up a stone-like face (Sherlock), the consulting detective broke the silence, "Well, let's get upstairs."

Molly only nodded. For a second she wondered how they were supposed to get inside – she had given back her key some time ago – but before she could ask, Sherlock took the key out of his coat pocket and held the door open for her.

She considered if she should even ask, but Sherlock seemed to have read her mind and informed her, "Lestrade."

Again the pathologist nodded and entered the building, Sherlock following close behind. She was not sure if Lestrade actually knew that Sherlock had the key.

Standing in front of flat Nr 1904 and staring at the white-blue police tape that read "Police Line Do Not Cross", Molly suddenly felt dread coming over her. She felt her palms getting sweaty and her pulse rise. She gulped and told herself to calm down. She did not want Sherlock to see the chaos that suddenly filled her head. She felt a sudden wave of dizziness hit her, as the pictures of the last time she had been here, involuntarily flashed in front of her eyes. She shook her head in order to get rid of them and get a grip of herself again.

Out of the corners of her eyes she saw Sherlock coming to stand next to her and putting the key inside the keyhole. But just as he was about to turn it around, he stopped in his movement and turned towards the pathologist.

To Molly's surprise he did not look at her in his usual deducing manner, but with a more far away expression.

His voice was quite empty when he spoke, "John said it was more than a bit insensitive of me to demand of you to help me investigate in the death of your former fiancé."

Molly needed a moment to process what he had just said. Was he trying to apologize? Was this his way of telling her that she could back out if she wanted to?

She cleared her throat and then replied, "It was. But it's okay. I told you I would help you, so..." Her voice trailed off uncertain.

Only now did Sherlock's eyes focus on her, and for a second something flickered in his gaze that Molly could not place. It looked suspiciously like confusion, but that did not make any sense.

Otherwise his face was impassive when he nodded and said while finally opening the door, "Let's get it over with then."


	6. Murder!

**A/N: Once again thank you all for your reviews, favourites, follows... and your patience. Sorry that I don't reply to every review like I used to - I just lack the time. But know that every single one makes me incredibly happy! So thank you for taking the time!**

* * *

**Murder! **

"The criminal is the creative artist; the detective only the critic."  
― G.K. Chesterton, _The Blue Cross: A Father Brown Mystery_

Sherlock was not surprised when he entered Tom's flat. It looked just like he had expected - the place of someone who had lost control over his life. Dirty laundry was scattered across the couch, a few take-out boxes were on the couch table, piles of old newspapers in the corner – just a general mess.

With a confident stride he walked over to the couch table, unbuttoning his coat while doing so, and then crouched down to inspect the rug.

Molly stayed close to the door and stared at the scene in front of her for a moment. It somehow felt surreal. She was glad Tom's body was not there anymore. She was not sure if she would have been able to cope with that.

The rug underneath the coffee table Sherlock was inspecting, was stained with remains of blood. The pool of blood beside the coffee table where Tom's body had lain was still very much visible and it made the pathologist feel nauseous. She had to take a few calming breaths in order not to follow her instinct and flee the scene.

Sherlock was completely oblivious of the state his assistant was in and touched the coffee table where Tom's head had hit it.

"I assume you got the copy of the police report?" he asked in the direction of the pathologist, without taking his eyes off the rug.

His words brought Molly back to the present and she hurried to answer, her voice sounding a bit higher than usual, "Yes. The files were in my mailbox today, thank you."

If Sherlock had noticed her distress, he did not give any indication. He got up and went around the coffee table, his eyes a sharp blue.

"When was the crime committed?" he asked.

Molly hurried to retrieve the file from her bag. She was not sure if it had been a rhetorical question, because she was pretty certain that Sherlock knew when it had happened, but in case it had not been, she flipped through the pages and then told him, "The crime was committed before twelve on Wednesday night."

Sherlock nodded absentmindedly and went to stroll through the flat and Molly wondered what he was looking for.

With the file in her hand, she finally dared to step away from the door and followed Sherlock to look around the flat.

"Tell me more about his state of mind," Sherlock demanded, not looking at her but taking in everything in the apartment, although his expression told of disinterest.

The pathologist did not really know how to answer. She shrugged. "We didn't have any contact. It was not like we split up on... good terms. I mean... We were not friends, or anything," Molly stammered.

Sherlock sighed, still looking for clues.

"Still you must know something. I will not get an honest answer from his parents, and I need to know more about him to draw the right conclusions."

Molly stopped walking through the flat. It was pretty useless, since she did not know what she was looking for. So she sat in the armchair in the corner, the bag on her lap.

"His family blames me," she admitted.

"Why?"

"He got depressed after we broke up."

Sherlock went back into the sitting room and waved a hand as he focused on the coffee table again and replied, "The anti-depressants suggested as such. But just because you two broke up?" He shook his head as if that was a total foreign thought to him. "I mean, there are other living creatures in the ocean."

Had Molly not been so shocked by his words, she would have chuckled.

"I guess you mean there are other fishes in the sea."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Whatever."

The detective crouched down beside the coffee table, retrieved the magnifying glass out of his coat pocket and inspected a glass on the table more closely, as well as the half empty wine bottle and the cork beside it. And suddenly a change came over Sherlock's manner. He had lost his listless expression, and again Molly saw an alert light of interest in his keen, deep-set eyes. He raised the cork and examined it minutely.

Suddenly he got up again and strode into the adjoining kitchen, looking into the sink und opening some drawers and cupboards.

Seated in a corner like an interested student who observes the demonstration of his professor, Molly followed every step of that remarkable research. She had become an expert in watching him while he wasn't looking.

Sherlock took a glass out of one of the cupboards and inspected it more closely. Molly felt hot and cold, for she knew Sherlock was on to something.

He mumbled, "Interesting."

"What is?" Molly asked and got up from the chair.

Sherlock kept looking at the glass in his hand and asked, "What about the tox screen?"

Molly did not have to look into the file to give him an answer, "Still waiting for the final results."

Sherlock did not give any indication that he had heard, but put the glass back into the cupboard. Then he crouched down in front of the counter, squinted and then his gloved hands travelled over the smooth surface and picked up some hair. He stood up, looked closely at it, retrieved an evidence bag out of his pocket and put the hair inside.

Molly came to stand next to the consulting detective and looked past him at the object in his hand.

"Sherlock, what did you find?"

"Evidence. As usual forensics were sloppy."

Before Molly could ask more questions, Sherlock shoved the transparent bag into her hands and ordered, "I want you to look at the autopsy report and analyze this hair."

Only now had Molly a chance to look at the bag Sherlock had given her. It contained some kind of hair.

The detective went past her, back into the sitting room and went on, "I'd say it's some kind of animal's hair."

Before Molly was able to utter a word, Sherlock asked, "Didn't Tom have a dog?"

The pathologist was both surprised that Sherlock remembered such a – for him dull – piece of information and a bit overwhelmed by the turn of events. One moment Sherlock had been totally disinterested in Tom's death and then...

Molly tried to answer as quick as possible, "Yes, Fudge. He's with the Randalls."

Sherlock nodded and went to the door. Molly followed. She was confused.

"Now have you seen that there's nothing to it?" she asked, not knowing what conclusions the consulting detective had drawn from finding some hair and looking at some glasses.

He stopped at the door and gave her his I-am-excited-for-there-has-been-a-murder-smile. "Quite the contrary."

Molly's inside's twisted. "What do you mean?"

"We'll investigate further."

Molly came to stand next to him at the door and packed the file and evidence bag away. She took a deep breath.

"What's next? We talk to his parents?" It was not something she wanted to do. As she had already told Sherlock, she had not been their favourite person after the break-up.

"I've already talked to them. They won't be of any help. I'd say a talk with some of his friends is in order."

For a moment she was not sure, if she had not preferred to talk to Tom's parents. She had not seen his friends since the break-up either.

But before she could come up with some reason why they would not be of any help, Sherlock asked while opening the door, "You've said something about a pub?"

Again Molly was stunned by the fact that Sherlock remembered such a trivial fact from a conversation they had had quite some time ago, but before she could reply, Sherlock's phone went off.

He drew an annoyed breath and barked into the device, "I am busy Lestrade."

The detective inspector was used to the non-existing phone etiquette of his consultant, so he came straight to the point, "Do you think it's a good idea to drag Molly into this?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and Molly wondered what was going on. She strained to hear what Greg was saying, but was not able to. And before she got a chance to take a step closer, Sherlock huffed in annoyance, "You told me to find someone. I found someone." And with that he hung up.

Molly stared at him incredulously as he put his phone back into his coat pocket and repeated his question, as if nothing had happened, "Well, the pub?"


	7. Suspicion

**Suspicion**

"You spend your whole life stuck in the labyrinth, thinking about how you'll escape one day, and how awesome it will be, and imagining that future keeps you going, but you never do it. You just use the future to escape the present."  
― John Green, _Looking for Alaska_

The first five minutes of the taxi ride were spent in silence. Sherlock was in his mind palace – presumably filing away the gathered evidence – while Molly was looking outside the window, watching the busy streets of London pass by. Well, she was not really watching. She was more trying to distract herself as not to ask Sherlock about his findings. Apart from telling the cabbie the address, he had not said a single word since they had left the flat.

Molly knew he wanted to be left alone at the moment, but she could barely stand it. Her whole body was tense, and her thoughts running wild. She desperately tried to think of anything else: the autopsy she had done yesterday, that she needed to do the washing up, the last film she had seen in the theatre, ... but nothing was able to distract her enough to keep her mind off Sherlock's findings.

Suddenly she felt the big hand of said man covering her small one that had been nervously fidgeting in her lap. Molly's head snapped towards the consulting detective, who looked annoyed, "God Molly, as much as I value your alert mind, tell it to stop. It's impossible to think when you are so loud."

The cabbie threw a glance at them through the rear view mirror, probably wondering why the dark haired man had told the petite woman to be silent, when she had not uttered a single word.

Molly cleared her throat and cast her eyes down. She did not know what made her more nervous: Sherlock's indignation or his warm hand that was still covering hers.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, "It's just... I was wondering what you have found in the flat, that's all."

Out of the corners of her eyes Molly could see that Sherlock shook his head, as he finally pulled back his hand and let it rest on his lap again. For a second he looked at it, as if it were a foreign object that did not belong to his body.

"Then why didn't you just ask?"

The pathologist turned to look at him incredulously. She refrained from telling him the dozen reasons why it was never a good idea to interrupt the world's only consulting detective while he was thinking.

Sherlock looked right back at her, as if daring her to ask him directly, which Molly did, "So, what did you find?"

The words left the detective's mouth so quickly that Molly had troubles comprehending them all, "According to the police report and the look of the crime scene, the victim has fallen and hit his head on the table, which has broken his neck and lead to instant death. The traces on the coffee table and rug confirm that theory, but other evidence suggests another scenario: There are the half-empty bottle of wine on the table, the cork screw and the two glasses."

Sherlock looked at the pathologist as if everything should be clear to her now. She needed a moment to take in every word that had left his mouth and then started to question him in order to make sense of what he had said, "What about the wine bottle, the cork screw and..."

She could not remember what the last item had been that Sherlock had mentioned.

Sherlock sighed in annoyance and told her in his infuriating cryptic voice, "Two glasses, the two glasses are important."

Molly raised her eyebrows in question. "And why? There was only one glass on the table."

A glint of excitement was in Sherlock's eyes, for he was proud that his assistant had paid at least a bit of attention. "Obviously. But another glass had been used."

When Molly's face did not show any sign of understanding, but only more confusion, Sherlock reluctantly explained, "When I looked through the cupboards, I could see that all glasses had some water stains on them. Tom did not wipe them, just let them dry, like most men do. But one glass in the front row of the cupboard had been wiped with great care – there were no water stains on it. And as for the glass on the coffee table: It was full with wine under the brim and there was beeswing in it. Given Tom's state of intoxication at the time of his death, he was hardly able to carry a glass that was filled to the brim, yet even put it down onto the coffee table without spilling some of it."

He made a pause to give Molly time to take in all the information. Then he went on, "And as for the cork screw: There was a cork, but where was the screw? It was not on the coffee table nor to be seen on any of the police photos. I found a cork screw in one of the kitchen drawers, but the marks on the cork did not match the screw. So where is the cork screw with which the bottle has been opened?"

At the end of his explanation Sherlock looked at Molly expectantly, as if waiting for her to praise his genius.

The pathologist thought about it for a moment and then voiced out loud, "So, you think that there was someone else in the flat when he..." She could not say it, but made a motion with her hand.

Sherlock nodded eagerly, glad that she had followed this line of thinking.

All of a sudden Molly's stance got defensive when she crossed her arms in front of her chest. "And you base that conclusion on the fact that you could not find a cork screw?"

She sounded as if she was mocking him, and Sherlock did not like that at all, which led to his voice taking on a sharp edge while his eyes narrowed, "And someone has used a second glass. Did you not listen?"

Molly took a deep breath and drew the notebook out of her bag and started to make some notes.

Sherlock watched her and could not hold back on commenting, "You are writing from the back of the book to the front? What are you, Da Vinci?!"

Molly stopped her writing and turned towards him, planning on giving him a look, but when she met his eyes, she was surprised that there was a teasing twinkle in them. Hence she could not help the small smile that crept onto her lips.

She held his gaze, and not for the first time she wondered how that man could still be such an enigma to her. Sometimes it was hard to tell where the man ended and the mask began.

Sherlock's thoughts were quite alike. Although Molly Hooper had always been an open book to him, he had the feeling that he had skipped some pages while reading her in the past. There was something that intrigued him about her, although he would have never admitted that out loud. And since his fall and all the chaos that had followed, those... thoughts... feelings?... had become more frequent, more intense. He did not want to dwell on it or even read something into it, but he found it harder to resist day by day.

And for a split second he wondered if it had been a good idea to recruit Molly Hooper as his partner in crime again. He thought back on the last time she had assisted him with a case and how that had ended: He had asked her out. Even though he had seen the ring on her finger. What had he been thinking? Or had he done it because of the ring on her finger? Sure, he had just done it as a means to show his gratitude for what she had done for him. He had dinner with John after cases on a regular basis, after all. Maybe dinner was not the right word... Too many (Good? Bad? Disturbing? Unsettling? Confusing?) memories were connected with that term.

"So, what if Tom's friends refuse to talk to you?"

Molly's voice pulled the consulting detective from his thoughts. He hoped imploringly that his inner monologue had not been visible on his face. But given Molly's innocent expression, it had not.

Sherlock answered in a bored tone, "Doesn't matter, they do not need to say anything. You know that to me most people tend to be boring as soon as I have figured them out, which is generally about 15 seconds after I've first encountered them."

Molly chuckled and Sherlock was not sure if it was because she was nervous or if she was trying to make a joke when she said, "You've probably figured me out the moment you first laid eyes on me."

The consulting detective looked straight ahead when he stated matter-of-factly, "You are not most people."

Before Molly could contemplate if that had been a compliment, an insult or just a statement, the taxi stopped in front of a pub with a flickering neon sign that read "Bass Rock."


	8. Bass Rock

**A/N: Thanks again for all the encouraging words. You rock!  
For your information: There's won't be a new chapter for 2 weeks, since I am on vacation, but I will try to put the next one on asap.  
Enjoy and thanks for reading! **

* * *

**Bass Rock**

"All lies lead to the truth." – _The X-Files_

When the investigating pair stepped into the dimly lit pub, Sherlock drew a face when the smell of alcohol and cold cigarette smoke hit him full force. He had never been a fan of the famous English pup scene, but this place was even more awful than he had imagined. The interior was out of dark wood, the walls were full of tasteless paintings of sailing ships and the shelves were decorated with ships in bottles. The detective recognized a general maritime theme.

"So this is the pub where you went on the weekends with your fiancé?" Sherlock asked the woman standing next to him while still scanning his surroundings.

When she did not reply he stated, "I imagined that place to be quite different."

Without waiting for an answer, he walked straight up to the bar where two men, a woman and a grim looking barkeeper were standing. Apart from them no one else was in the _Bass Rock_ , which was not surprising given the time. Most people were at work, home or simply doing something more socially acceptable than drinking in a sordid pub at noon.

The woman was slim and tall with long strawy blonde hair. She wore faded jeans, a black T-shirt and a leather jacket that looked as if it belonged to a man. She stood behind the two men on this side of the counter, and her eyes widened when she glimpsed Molly.

The pathologist followed Sherlock close on his heels. When they came to stand in front of the small party, the eyes of the men narrowed dangerously on her small frame, and one of them stepped towards her and growled, "What the hell are you doing here?!"

He was about to grab Molly's arm, when Sherlock's hand shot forward, grabbed the man by the wrist and twisted the man's arm on his back. He let out a cry and bent down, given the way Sherlock held his arm in a vice grip.

Instinctively Molly took a step back and watched with a racing heart as Sherlock snarled towards the man in his grip, "I suggest you'd be more welcoming towards an old friend."

The other people in the bar watched the scene with wide eyes, not daring to interfere, although it was clear from the look on the other man's face next to the woman that he was raging.

Sherlock gave the man's wrist another pull and then shoved him back towards the others. For a second the consulting detective risked a glance towards the pathologist to make sure that she was alright.

She looked like a fragile bird, frightened and barely able to keep herself from shivering. For a moment the detective wondered why she reacted so strongly to those people that had once been her friends, although seeing them now, he could hardly believe it. But before he could contemplate it any longer, the growling of a dog was heard.

Sherlock turned around and saw a Rottweiler turning around the corner that seemed to lead to some kind of back-room. Having grown up with a dog, he was not afraid of it, although it did not look particularly friendly. The dog did not look very pretty altogether: It was limping, one ear was frazzled and the left side of his face looked distorted, as if it had been burned.

"So that must be Fugde," Sherlock stated and pointed towards the intimidating looking dog.

At the mention of its name, the animal stopped growling and cocked its head to the side to regard the man in the Belstaff with alert eyes.

"Yes," said the woman, made a step forward and batted her thighs, whistled and added, "Come here Fudge." The dog gave Sherlock one last look and then went over to the woman who had called him.

She petted him. "Good boy. Sit." The Rottweiler did as told.

"My name is Theresa. Theresa Wright, those are Pete and Stuart Randall and this," she pointed towards the barkeeper, "is Jack Crocker, the captain of this sinking ship." She smiled, what was supposed to underline her joke, and stretched out her hand towards Sherlock.

The detective shook it reluctantly. "I'm Sherlock Holmes and I have a few questions concerning Thomas Hopkins' death."

"So you are this sleuth she always talked about," the man called Pete Randall said with disgust while indicating with his head towards Molly and rubbing his wrist where Sherlock had held him.

Sherlock shrugged. "Well, I guess I am."

Theresa had been eying Molly since she had introduced herself and the others and finally acknowledged her, "Good to see you, Molls. How are you?"

Molly's eyes light up a bit when she answered, "I'm fine, thanks. What about you? You look better."

Theresa only nodded and a small, but genuine smile formed on her lips.

Sherlock, who thought that he had enough of useless small talk, started his interrogation, "So when have you last seen Tom? And where were you on Wednesday night between 9p.m. and midnight?"

He looked at the three men and Theresa Wright.

Stuart Randall huffed, "Why should I answer your questions? I know what you're doing. Do you think I'm stupid?"

Sherlock drew up an eyebrow which made him look even more smug than usual.  
"I hope this was a rhetorical question."

When Stuart Randall looked confused, Sherlock felt the need to explain, being sure that Mr Randall did not understand what rhetorical meant, "Of course you are stupid."

Stuart made a move to confront the detective with his fists, but the barkeeper reached across the counter, "How many times should I tell you guys, if you wanna have a fight, go outside."

Annoyed, Stuart shook off the hand of Jack Crocker and continued his staring match with Sherlock, who was naturally unimpressed.

When none of the Randalls answered the detective's question, the barkeeper replied instead, "The last time I've seen Tom was on Sunday, I think, but I am not sure. I just know that it was not Monday, because we are closed on Monday, and he was not here on Tuesday or Wednesday."

Sherlock nodded. "And where were you on Wednesday night?"

Mr Crocker made a sweeping gesture with his hands, "What'd you think?"

"What about you?" Sherlock turned towards Tom's others friends.

"I was here too," Theresa replied and indicated with her head in the direction of the Randalls, "And those two as well." She looked at Molly shyly and the cast her eyes down onto the floor.

Sherlock shrugged. "Now was that so hard? That's all I wanted to know."

The detective was about to turn around when Stuart thought he was brave (or in Sherlock's opinion stupid) and made a step forward and confronted Molly, "And what about you, you..." but he did not some any further, because Sherlock was blocking his path, shielding Molly from his hateful gaze.

"You better leave her be, or you will be very sorry, Mr. Randall." The calm way Sherlock said it, without any emotion in his voice, made Molly's blood run cold.

And obviously it had the same effect on Stuart Randall, for his eyes widened in fear when he whispered, "I believe that you are the devil himself."

Sherlock Holmes smiled at the compliment, turned around and with a protective hand on the small of her back guided Molly Hooper out of the _Bass Rock_.


	9. Woman to Woman

**A/N: Once more thanks for all the encouragement and lovely comments on that story. It means a lot to me! You are all fantastic!**

* * *

 **Woman to Woman**

"A good act does not wash out the bad, nor a bad act the good. Each should have its own reward."  
― George R.R. Martin, _A Clash of Kings_

"Some nice friends you have."

Sherlock's sarcastic voice made Molly almost jump while she was busy documenting some findings. She finished the sentence she was writing and replied, "They are not my friends."

"But they used to be."

Molly laid down the pen and turned around to face the consulting detective who had sneaked into the morgue without making any noise. Sometime Molly wondered if he could float.

Molly leaned against the counter and explained her relation to the group of people they had met in the pub yesterday, "They were Tom's friends."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side and regarded her for a moment as if contemplating her words and trying to find some hidden meaning in them. It was hard to tell if he found what he was looking for, because neither his voice nor expression gave any indication when he went on, "So Stuart and Pete are brothers."

"How would you know?"

Sherlock graced her with his trademark it-is-oh-so-obvious-look, "Typical genetic markers, same surname, ... Do I need to go on?"

Molly did not answer, she knew it had been a rhetorical question.

Slowly Sherlock crossed the room until he was standing a few feet away from her. It was not so close as to be intimidated by his presence, yet Molly instinctively pressed herself against the counter. It did not escape the detective's perceptive gaze, and he could not help the slight satisfaction he felt in knowing that he still had an effect on her. Outwardly he seemed to be absolutely detached of course.

He folded his hands behind his back and said, "And Theresa Wright is Tom's ex girlfriend."

He made a small pause in which Molly only nodded and then went on looking almost a bit confused, "I thought it was a myth that one can be friends with heir ex girlfriends."

A second later his eyes focused on Molly, as was his habit when he was deducing someone, and he stated, as if provoking her, "And is it very common that ex girlfriends and ex fiancées get on so well?"

Molly had enough and pushed herself off the counter and past the consulting detective that was not surprised by her flight in the slightest. He had aimed for that, although he still was not sure why exactly.

Molly went over to one of the slabs where a file lay and clarified while walking, "Theresa and I had a lot in common."

Sherlock followed her with his eyes but remained in his spot.  
"I just had not expected her to be the one that sympathised with you. Tom's friends not being overly fond of you was surprising, given the fact that you are generally considered as a very likable person who wants to be on good terms with everyone."

Now it was Molly's turn to give him a challenging look, "Every person has a dark side."

Sherlock's initial response was to chuckle at the absurdity of her statement, but something made the sound stuck in his throat.

The pathologist shook her head to get rid of her anger, drew a long breath and then stated, "The Randalls are like Tom's parents. They blame me for his depression. He was truly devastated by our break-up." She shrugged.

Sherlock approached her slowly.

"Was the break-up that bad?" The disbelief in his voice angered Molly once again. She crossed her arms in front of her chest.

"Sherlock, you know nothing about relationships."

That made Sherlock pause a moment in his stride.  
"Why are you getting defensive? Why do you act so secretive about your past relationship?"

Molly put her hands on the slab before her and leaned on it, her body language telling the consulting detective that she was now up for confrontation. "Maybe because I don't want to talk about it with you?"

For a second Sherlock was taken aback by her words and he felt his jaw clench. But before he could reply, she ranted on, "How would you feel if I were to question you about your relationship history? About your drug addiction, about the dead, naked woman, who happened not to be dead all of a sudden,…"

The consulting detective clenched his fists at his sides and his look made Molly feel cold all of a sudden. But she was not finished yet, "You don't tell your friends anything about your past, and I reckon you don't want to share it with me, do you?"

The knuckles of Molly's hand had turned white where she was gripping the metal of the slab. The coldness of the steel stood in stark contrast to the heat that was radiating off her body.

Sherlock's face was a mask and his voice lacked any emotion when he said, "I've never been in a relationship…" There was a pause in which his words hung in the air, until he finished, "... with The Woman."

Molly did not really know what to say to that. But there was not really time anyway, for Sherlock continued not only with talking but also with approaching her, "Additionally that's something entirely different: My past is not relevant, whereas yours is. I don't see why you're uncomfortable talking about a past relationship that you ended."

Molly threw her head back in frustration. "Sometimes you really have no idea about… Wait, how do you know it was me who ended it?"

Sherlock came to stand on the other side of the slab. He shrugged carelessly, "I'm me. Observing that it was you who ended it was hardly a challenge."

Leaning slightly away from the metal barrier between them, the pathologist put her hands on her hips. "So you know everything about me by just looking at my shoe laces and I know nothing about you."

"So?"

"It's not fair."

"It is not my fault that you lack my deductive skills."

Molly Hooper could not believe his nerve. She drew a breath to start another rant, when the swinging doors of the morgue opened and in went DI Greg Lestrade. He only went a few steps before he saw the position the two other people in the room were in and instinctively stopped. The air was so thick you could practically cut it with a knife. The DI glanced at the pathologist, thinking that she was in need of help, when the consulting detective sighed and said, "Lestrade, it seems you make a habit out of interrupting me."

Greg raised his eyebrows and refrained from replying. He nodded towards Molly, who responded in kind, and went over to stand next to the pair. He cleared his throat.

"Sherlock, after we talked yesterday, I have sent forensics to Tom's flat again. Seems that there really has been someone else in the flat."

"Really?" The detective's voice was dripping with sarcasm, while he folded his hands behind his back again.

Lestrade shot him a look and then went on, "Yes. We have found dog food and a dog leash but no dog. And someone has made a sailor's knot into the dog leash. And as far as we know Tom has never been on any boat."

A humourless laugh escaped Sherlock's mouth and even Molly drew up her eyebrows in disbelief.

The detective rolled his eyes. "Wit and you are strangers, George."

Lestrade's cheeks blushed with rising anger, but Sherlock told him, "Of course Tom had a dog. It is with his friends and as for the sailor's knot, anyone with internet can learn to do a sailor's not nowadays. Never heard of YouTube tutorials?"

The DI opened his mouth to retort something, but then seemed to think better of it. Instead he drew a calming breath and then turned towards the petite pathologist to his left.

"Since this is now officially an open case, I will need to ask you some questions, Molly. Strictly routine, of course. Just to cross you off the list of... You know..." He looked apologetic.

Molly smiled kindly at him. "I know. Shoot."

Lestrade nodded clearly relieved by her understanding and asked, "Where were you on Wednesday night?"

Molly answered immediately, "At work."

Lestrade nodded. "Okay. Can someone confirm that?"

Now the consulting detective joined in the conversation. "Come on, Lestrade, this is ridiculous!" The exasperation in his voice was clear.

But before the detective inspector could defend his actions, Molly answered his question, "Yes, Sherlock. He was here to check on his cultures."

Lestrade seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, and tried to sound light-hearted, "I guess there's hardly a better alibi."

Molly smiled at him and Sherlock just rolled his eyes.

"Now, are you done detective inspector?" Sherlock asked mockingly.

Lestrade glared at him for a second, then nodded towards Molly.  
"As for now, I guess so. Keep me posted." The DI felt a bit bad for leaving Molly alone with the git that was their friend, for it seemed they had been in an argument when he had entered the room and Lestrade knew all too well how obnoxious and cruel Sherlock could be. But then Molly and Sherlock's acquaintance had changed since after the fall and John told him that Molly had even slapped him – more than once. So maybe it was Sherlock who needed protection from Molly and not the other way round. So he thought it was safe to leave. And with that he exited the morgue again.

For a moment Sherlock and Molly were left standing there, the remains of their earlier argument still hanging in the air between them. But the detective decided he was done with arguing today, so he pointed towards the file that lay on the slab between them.

"I figure you have gone through the autopsy report."

Molly could not deny that she was glad that they were talking about work again. She reached for the file and answered, "Yes. James Mortimer did the post mortem. He is not the best pathologist, but good enough. The cause of death was pretty obvious, though, routine. He died of a broken neck."

Molly surprised herself at how detached and professional she sounded, as if she were talking about a random victim, not someone she once planned to spend the rest of her life with. Until death do you part... it seemed like the ultimate cosmic joke now.

She handed Sherlock the file who took it and scanned the pages, while Molly kept on reporting her findings, "We've got the full tox screen; there was a high dose of alcohol as well as anti depressants in his blood."

Sherlock's eyes flew over the page of the toxicological report and added, "But no traces of sleeping pills."

"No," Molly confirmed.

The detective nodded and handed the file back to the pathologist.

"In this case the hypothesis of intention of suicide is obsolete. People have seen enough TV to know that sleeping pills are the drugs to go for and not anti depressants if you want to kill yourself," Sherlock stated matter of factly.

Molly took the file from him and nodded in affirmation.

"What about the half-empty bottle of wine?"

For a second Molly was confused, "What about it?"

Sherlock barely refrained from rolling his eyes, "Were there fingerprints on it?"

"No."

"None?"

"None, whatsoever."

A sly smile formed on the detective's lips. "Interesting."

The pathologist regarded him with interest. "Why is that interesting? I would say it is rather sad for us."

Sherlock explained, "It is unusual that there are no fingerprints at all; usually at least Tom's should have been on the bottle. But no fingerprints on it leads to the conclusion that someone wiped the bottle, and I find it highly doubtful that Tom would wipe a wine bottle clean off his own fingerprints, especially in the state of intoxication he was in. Subsequently it had been done by the killer who was getting rid of evidence."

The detective's eyes had that certain glint which Molly still could not decide if she found it exciting of disturbing.

Before Molly had time to decide on an emotion, Sherlock came up with another question, "What about that animal's hair?"

It took the pathologist a moment to come up with an answer, "Sorry, there was no time yet."

"I'll do it then," Sherlock stated and looked like he was about to make the analysis right now.

Molly held up a hand. "What? No! I will do it, but you'll have to be a bit patient."

Sherlock regarded her and was about to contradict her, when he suddenly realised that he did not want to start another argument with her. What had John told him? He was supposed to show empathy, to be nice to her...

Molly was prepared for another fight, when Sherlock's answer took her by surprise, "Alright. Let me know as soon as you have the results."

Molly eyed him suspiciously, for she was not sure if this was some kind of manipulation. But she could not detect any sign of deceit, so she only said, "Sure, I will."

So they stood there for an awkward moment. Molly was wondering what was keeping him here and Sherlock was trying to come up with something... he did not really know what.

"Maybe your choice in a fiancé was not so bad after all, at least there would not have been a need to change your initials." The words had tumbled out of his mouth before he had had a chance to stop them.

Molly only stared at him befuddled, clearly not knowing what this was all about.

While slapping himself mentally, Sherlock tried to clarify, "Molly Hooper and Molly Hopkins... same initials."

The woman in question blinked a few time, opened her mouth, but closed it again for lack of something to say.

Sherlock had to admit that this had probably not been what John had meant when he had told him to be nice. So he went back into his comfort zone and talked about something he felt comfortable with - work.

"This Theresa Wright, she does not fit in. There is something about her... We need to take a closer look."

Molly could hardly follow Sherlock's sudden change of topic – from her initials to Theresa.

"We?"she asked feeling totally stupid.

To her astonishment Sherlock did not give her a look or roll his eyes, but answered in a neutral voice, "Yes. I need to gather some more information and I think a stakeout is in order. Presumably tomorrow night. I will text you the details."

Molly's mind raced while the consulting detective passed her to exit the morgue. She could only follow him with his eyes, as he stopped just as he was about to push the doors open and turned around once more.

His face showed something akin to kindness, and for some reason it made Molly's breath hitch.

The next words felt awkward on Sherlock's tongue, "John said you had a good influence on me."

And although Molly's look was one of utter confusion, Sherlock noticed the faint blush traverse her features, and it felt as if its warmth somehow crept into his chest. Finally he had managed to say the right thing to Molly Hooper. Obviously.


	10. Young and Innocent

**A/N: Again thank you for reading, favourites, and following. It is so encouraging and keeps me writing faster. You are all so awesome!**

 **Trigger Warning: This chapter deals with the subject/aftermath of rape. There is nothing graphic, though.**

* * *

 **Young and Innocent**

"My past is everything I failed to be."  
― Fernando Pessoa, _The Book of Disquiet_

 **Cambridge 2002**

The moment when Molly Hooper entered flat Nr 1905 she shared with her best friend Abby Grange, she knew something was wrong; terribly wrong.

She came home from the holidays two days earlier than planned and had been sure to find her flatmate at the desk, studying like she had wanted to – being the reason why Abby had not visited her parents over the holidays.

But instead of an ambitious friend, Molly was greeted by a path of clothes, scattered on the floor leading to the bathroom. The door was slightly ajar and Molly could hear water running. The room was dark; the only light coming from the bathroom.

The normal thing would have been to call for Abby, but instinct told Molly not to do so. Instead she slowly closed the door behind her and put her small suitcase down. A chill went down her spine when she stepped into a room the darkness had rendered unfamiliar to her.

She made her way towards the bathroom door. Before opening it, she hesitated. The feeling of foreboding was even stronger now, and somehow Molly knew that whatever awaited her behind that ugly green door, would change her life forever. She took a deep breath as if going underwater and then gently pushed the door open.

The scene before Molly's eyes made her heart stop a beat: The bathroom was filled with hot steam, so that the mirror was fogged and it took a moment for Molly's eyes to adjust. Huddled in the shower was Molly's best friend Abby. The water was running over her tiny figure that was curled into a ball, as if she wanted the water to wash her away.

"Abby?" Molly breathed and rushed towards her, not caring about her friend's state of undress.

Abby did not react at all. When Molly reached the tub, her eyes widened in shock. A small, red trickle made its way from Abby's shaking body down the drain.

"My God," Molly whispered to herself, before she touched Abby's arm and said her name again in order to get her attention. This had its more or less desired effect, for Abby's head shot up into Molly's direction and Abby stared at her with wide eyes.

Abby's breathing sped up und Molly feared she might start to hyperventilate.

"Abby, it's okay. It's me," she tried to calm her down, but Abby did not seem to hear her, because she rocked back and forth and kept staring at Molly, her face pale.

Molly started to become desperate and said her friend's name again, while gently touching her shoulder, trying to calm her down. Her skin was like ice.

"Abby, come on, snap out of it."

Abby blinked two times and Molly could see her eyes slowly focussing on her. Gently Molly squeezed her shoulders again.

"I am cold and dirty," Abby whispered as if in trance. Molly could barely hear her over the running water.

"You're in shock. Come on, we need to get you out of here."

Molly reached for the faucet to turn the water off, but her friend grabbed her by the wrist. The grip was of such desperate urgency that Molly felt the sudden urge to cry.

She did not however, but tried to comfort Abby, "It's alright. I'll just turn off the water and then we'll wrap you in a towel and a warm blanket, okay?"

For Molly it seemed like forever until the grip of Abby's hand loosened slightly. Then she reached up and turned the water off. That her hair and clothes had gotten wet in the process did not bother her.

Instead she kneeled back down and helped her friend out of the tub. She wrapped her into two big towels and then they stood there, facing each other in the middle of their tiny bathroom. Abby's hands were trembling while she desperately clutched the towels around her body.

Molly was afraid that if she looked at her own hands right now she would see them shaking too, so she kept her eyes transfixed on her friend. She needed to be calm and collected. She needed to be strong for her best friend.

Molly cleared her throat, "Abby, are you hurt?"

There had been blood in the tub, but Molly had not seen any outward injuries.

When her flat mate did not react, Molly tried again, this time with more urgency in her voice, "Abby, are you hurt?"

Like in slow-motion Abby's head finally turned towards Molly and her eyes looked into hers. The intensity in her gaze bared her soul to Molly. She saw it so clearly now that she did not know how she had missed it before.

Molly had an epiphany. Suddenly all the odd behaviour of her best friend in the last few months made sense: Why she had kept mostly to herself, why her gaze had been nervous, why she had been distant, why she sometimes looked like she had been crying when she had come out of the bathroom, why she had tried to avoid her. Now everything made sense. The signs had been there all along. How could Molly not have seen it? Molly wanted to slap herself for being such a blind idiot. She was supposed to be Abby's best friend – she must have noticed it. She had let her best friend down, she had failed her. And she swore to herself that she would make it up to her. She would make it right again, whatever it took.

Molly was so absorbed and shocked by her conclusion that she had not noticed that at some point Abby had started to cry again. A sob from her brought Molly back to the present. She knew she needed to get Abby to a doctor and call the police, but somehow she felt like her mind and body had frozen; she was not able to think or move.

Molly did not know what to say. All words she came up with – they all seemed trite, cold comfort under the present circumstance. And as a wave of guilt washed over her, Molly reached forward and wrapped her best friend in an embrace. Abby clung to her as if Molly was her lifeline. Now hot tears ran down Molly's cheeks too.

Trying to find solace and forgiveness in each other's arms the two young women stood there. Together – alone.


	11. Rear Window

**A/N: Once again all my humble thanks goes out to the lovely people who support my stories. Every follow, favourite and gentle word make me smile!**

 **Being a PA myself, I cannot help but sympathize with Janine. Oddly enough not so much for what Sherlock did to her, but for still being at Magnussen's office at this ungodly hour.**

* * *

 **Rear Window**

"She's gonna save me,  
Call me 'baby'  
Run her hands through my hair  
She'll know me crazy,  
Soothe me daily  
Better yet she wouldn't care  
We'll steal a Lexus,  
Be detectives,  
Ride 'round picking up clues."  
– Hozier, _Jackie and Wilson_

At precisely 6 p. m. Molly got into the car waiting in front of her building. The second she closed the door, the car set into motion. Molly was not surprised by the lack of greetings, she was rather used to it. So while the busy streets of London flashed by the window, Molly looked around the interior of the car and then stated with a slightly sarcastic undertone, "A Lexus, seriously?"

Although Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on the street in front of him, he asked, "What's wrong with a Lexus?"

Molly shrugged, "I don't know, I guess I just expected, I don't know… something more James-Bond-like…"

"A Jaguar, maybe?" he asked drily, but Molly could see the teasing twinkle in his eyes.

She contemplated that for a moment and then said, "Hmm... I can picture you in a Jaguar commercial."

Now since they were waiting at a red light, Sherlock took the opportunity and looked at his co-driver. "I'll keep that in mind for my retirement: Jaguar testimonial or beekeeper."

He was only peripherally aware of Molly's smile, because the traffic light turned green and he focused on the street again.

The pathologist was just about to lean back into her seat, when Sherlock spoke up again, "What's in that bag?" He pointed towards Molly's lap.

"Coffee and scones," she responded, although she was pretty sure Sherlock had already deduced it.

The consulting detective raised his eyebrows and berated her, "It's a stakeout, not a date, Molly."

His statement shocked her into numbed silence. A thousand thoughts flew through her head, but she was not able to grasp a single one and make it into words. So after a moment or two of opening and closing her mouth a few times, she settled for a defensive, "I know." She failed in her attempt to keep her voice even. She clutched the bag in her lap a bit tighter and turned to look out her window.

His harshness was not lost on Sherlock. He knew he was supposed to feel something, but he did not know what. He knew he should say something to make her feel comfortable around him again, he knew she had only meant to be kind when she had packed coffee and scones. Because that was the kind of person Molly Hooper was, warm and friendly, taking care of him.

And what kind of person was he? Someone who belittled her caring nature because he did not know how to deal with it. It was hard for him to understand that there were people who had no ulterior motive, but were really justfriendly and selfless. He had hardly known that concept until Molly Hooper and John Watson had stepped into his life. Sure, his parents were selfless in loving him, but they were his parents, it was their biological defect to love him. But Molly Hooper, what reason had she to... like... him? What reason had he to...

He shook his head before he could finish this line of thinking, and said instead as he took a right turn into the street they were supposed to go, "This is where Theresa Wright works. She is the PA to the CEO." Sherlock pointed towards a tall office building out of glass and steel.

Molly turned her head and looked where he was pointing at. "I know that, Sherlock. Remember, I was friends with her."

The consulting detective ignored her and parked the car across the street from where Theresa Wright was working and explained his plan, "We will follow her when she leaves work and see where she is going. I am pretty sure she knows more about Tom's death than she told us at the _Bass Rock_."

Molly cleared her throat and sat up in her seat. "Alright."

* * *

45 minutes went by in total silence. Nothing happened. They sat in the car, the only lights coming from the street lamps. Sherlock had not moved since he had parked the car, his eyes focused on the entrance of the office building where their target was supposed to walk out of. He looked like a black and white portrait – half of his face lit, half shaded in dark.

Molly became impatient and felt restless. She could not hold in a sigh any longer and finally released it. It had the anticipated effect. Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned to look at her.

"Boring, isn't it? That's what real detective work is most of the time. John should write about that in his blog for once. Instead he has this fatal habit of looking at everything from the point of view of a story instead of as a scientific exercise and thus has ruined what might have been an instructive and even classical series of demonstrations. He slurs over work of the utmost finesse and delicacy, in order to dwell upon sensational details which may excite, but cannot possibly instruct, the reader."

For a second Molly only stared at her friend and then burst out laughing.

Sherlock looked at her offended. "Why are you laughing? This was not supposed to be funny."

Molly shook her head and took a few long breaths to calm down. She held up a hand in defence. "I know, I'm sorry, it's just..." She giggled again, and Sherlock crossed his arms in front of his chest, emphasising his state of annoyance.

Finally Molly was able to speak again. "Sorry, but if I didn't know better I would say this was you rambling."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side. "And why is that so funny?"

"Just because... you know... normally it is me rambling and you...," she made a vague gesture with her right hand and her voice trailed off.

He squinted at her in the synthetic light of the street lamps illuminating the interior of the car just enough to see each other's faces. He was studying her and Molly started to feel uneasy under his gaze. Still she tried not to look away although she had a hard time.

It was Sherlock who finally looked again at the building they were observing and asked annoyed, "What takes her so long?"

Molly felt herself relax again and leaned back into her seat and shrugged, "She's a PA – they usually work late. You should know that, your ex was a PA."

"Janine is not my ex," he said coldly.

"Fake-ex?" Molly prompted and lifted her eyebrows, not knowing why she was teasing him.

Sherlock glared at her. "I am a high functioning sociopath. I am not interested in girlfriends, neither real nor fake."

"You're not a sociopath. Sociopath's don't feel guilt or compassion," Molly stated looking at him, as if she was absolutely sure of it.

"I don't feel guilty for killing Magnussen," Sherlock said loftily as if to prove his point.

A sad, yet somehow warm smile formed on Molly's lips when she responded, "You felt guilty for what you did to John after the fall."

Sherlock could not deny that she had caught him off-guard. She was right. He had felt guilty, he had even shed a tear or two before he had jumped off the roof, because of what he was about to do to his best friend. Not that he would ever admit that to anyone, not even to Molly Hooper. It was easier to keep things unsaid. Safer. Yet he was astonished by how she had managed to surprise him again.

He watched her face with the interest of an art aficionado studying a painting. Molly's breathing pattern changed slightly, and he detected a faint hitch as she inhaled.

Sherlock made a bold move and brushed her cheek with the tip of his fingers. Molly stared at him wide-eyes, not daring to speak or move, afraid she would break whatever spell had befallen him.

His hand came to rest close to her pulse point. And Molly was wondering if he could hear it, feel it, beating too fast?

Obviously he could, because his eyes fixed on her neck which was party covered by her scarf, when he stated, "Your heart is racing."

"Yeah?" Molly croaked and asked herself if that was indeed her voice. And that made her snap out of it. This was Sherlock Holmes and they were still on the case of Tom's death. It was not over yet. She could not afford being distracted by curly hair and a handsome face. She could not base her interpretation of his feelings on a circumstantial attraction, stirred by the intensity of the moment and gone the moment order was restored.

Sherlock saw the change in her stance and pulled his hand away. He did not know what had gotten into him. He did not know how this stakeout had become… whatever that was. He told himself that it was not different than if he were here with John. Well, he would not have studied John's face the way he had just done with Molly's and he would definitely not have touched John's cheek, but apart from that it was the same. Almost. Somehow.

He felt... uneasy... nervous? And as he had learned to get himself back under control when feeling something akin to nervousness, he started to recite the 243 types of tobacco ash in his head.

Molly watched Sherlock staring out the windshield again, but she was pretty sure he was not paying attention whether Theresa Wright was exiting the building or not.

"Sherlock...," she tried to get his attention, not really knowing what she was about to say, but not being able to stand the surreal silence.

Sherlock's head snapped into her direction, "So when will you finally offer me some coffee and scones, or are you planning on taking them back home again?" He smiled with his mouth, but not with his eyes. He was busy picturing number 141 of the tobacco ashes.

Molly was glad for the change of subject and reached into her bag to retrieve two scones, a thermos bottle and two plastic cups.

Sherlock kept a sarcastic comment to himself while Molly poured him a cup. The smell of hot coffee filled the car, and when Sherlock took the first bite of his scone, he could not help but admit that he could get used to that kind of caring treatment.

Molly chewed on her own scone and looked at the entrance of the office building, wondering how long they would be sitting here, waiting.

"I feel like Mulder and Scully," the pathologist suddenly blurted out.

Sherlock's eyebrows almost went into his hairline when he turned to look at her, not knowing where her statement had come from. "Why? You do not have red hair and I have no sister who has been abducted by aliens."

He cocked his head to the side as if thinking and then added, "Although I would offer Mycroft to the aliens."

"How come you know who Mulder and Scully are?!"

Sherlock shrugged and gazed back at the office building. "Apart from avoiding group therapy and watching recaps of _The X-Files_ there was not much to do in rehab."

Molly only nodded and took another sip of the coffee.

"I'm sure you were one of those people who wanted them to be happily married in the end," Sherlock went on with the conversation.

"What's wrong with that?"

Sherlock shook his head, "You are a hopeless romantic."

"I am not!" she insisted.

When Sherlock only sighed and kept looking out of the window, Molly said, "If Mulder and Scully were to marry, she'd have to keep her name."

"Why?"

"Because Mulder not calling Scully Scully is just wrong. I mean, they say each other's names between ten and fifteen times per episode."

"Unthinkable," Sherlock agreed with mock indignation in his voice. He turned to look at her and his face broke into a genuine, actually pensive and secretly delighted smile. Molly could not help but mirror his expression.

And then a yawn escaped her. She covered her mouth.

"How can you be tired. You've just had coffee?"

Molly put the cup into the cup holder. "It's been a long day. Do you think she will be out soon?"

Sherlock looked back onto the street. "I don't know. But you can close your eyes for a bit. I will wake you as soon as she exits the building."

"Okay."

Molly leaned back into her seat and closed her eyes. Sherlock gave into the privilege to let his eyes roam over her form when he was sure she had her eyes firmly closed.

Her voice made him nearly jump out of his skin, "Would you recite the 243 types of tobacco ash so I can fall asleep faster?" A wicked smile was playing on her lips, but she kept her eyes closed.

Sherlock however acted as if he did not find her teasing amusing but growled instead, "Just go to sleep, Molly Hooper."

* * *

20 minutes went by without any developments. Sherlock sat unmoving staring at the entrance while Molly lay still in her seat, her breathing even. Sherlock thought her to be asleep, when her voice interrupted his thoughts, "Do you never feel lonely, Sherlock? Ever?"

Her question made him freeze. He could see her staring at him out of the corners of his eyes. Somewhere between closing her eyes and opening them again she had pulled her pony tail loose and now her hair were falling around her shoulders, making her look even more innocent than usual. He could not understand how this woman kept him sane and drove him mad in so many ways.

Molly patiently remained silent. She was not even sure if she would get an answer at all. When Sherlock did nothing but keep staring out of the window and she was about to tell him to forget what she had asked, he said in a low voice, "It's not true."

"What is?" Molly asked, sitting up in her seat again.

"You said you didn't know anything about me or my past. You know more than most people."

Molly blinked confused when Sherlock turned to look at her. His gaze was on her, not oppressive, but soothing. It caressed her features softly, as if delivering a message to her.

But Molly had no idea what that message was. Why was he always so cryptic? The enigmatic Sherlock Holmes...

Just as she was about to ask him what he meant, his head snapped back towards the office building and Molly saw Theresa Wright stepping out onto the street and get into her car.

Without any further ado Sherlock started the engine and followed Theresa's car.

* * *

They stopped in front of a small church in Hyde Park Place and watched Theresa Wright get out of her car and enter the house next to the church. Molly's heart was beating fast. She watched Sherlock out of the corners of her eyes and followed his lead when he got out of the car and went over to the house Theresa had just entered.

Standing in front of it, he growled. "Seems like you have to take over from here."

Molly drew her brows together in confusion and Sherlock pointed to the sign next to the door and explained, "This is the Tyburn convent – women only. I am not allowed to go in there."

Molly felt a mixture of dread and relief. "So, you want me to follow her?"

"Of course," Sherlock said in his typical aloof way, pressed the door opener and almost shoved Molly inside.

"What if she sees me?" Molly squeaked while being pushed by the consulting detective.

"Just do not let it come to that." With that last bit of useless advice the door behind Molly closed and she was left standing alone in the hall wondering what she was about to do now.

* * *

Sherlock sat in the car, impatiently staring alternately through the rear window and the rear-view mirror. He wondered what was taking Molly so long and started to worry that maybe she had indeed encountered Theresa Wright. Molly was a terrible liar most of the time, especially when nervous.

He was just about to get out of the car and take things into his own hands, when he saw Molly Hooper's figure approaching though the rear window. She hurried towards the car and got in hastily. She closed the door and released a long breath.

When she did not say anything right away Sherlock's impatience got the better of him and he snapped, "So what happened?"

Molly was unimpressed by his harsh tone. "Start the car, she will be out in a moment."

Sherlock Holmes did not like to be told what to do by his assistant, neither by John Watson nor Molly Hooper, but he saw her point and so he started the car and drove in the direction of their respective homes.

"So..." he prompted when they were around the first corner.

Molly told him of her findings, "It is some kind of community centre that belongs to the convent."

Sherlock interrupted her, "I already know that from the sign on the door, so what did she do there?"

"She went to an AA-meeting, she's in a support group."

Sherlock looked taken aback. "She does not look like a recovering alcoholic. There were no signs. And why would she go to a pub regularly if she were a recovering alcoholic? That would be highly counterproductive."

"Seems like you have read her wrong."

Sherlock gave her a look that spoke volumes.

"You have been wrong before," Molly added in a low voice.

Anger blazed in Sherlock's eyes, his hands gripped the steering wheel a bit tighter and he clenched his jaw when he asked, "So have you known her to be an alcoholic?"

There was a short pause before Molly answered. "No."

For a moment Sherlock averted his gaze from the street and Molly knew he was deducing her. She could not help but swallow visibly but otherwise remained still.

Sherlock looked back onto the street.

"So that was the great mystery of Ms. Theresa Wright. How boring," Sherlock spat. "This whole stakeout was nothing but a waste of time.

Molly nodded numbly, staring out the windshield, seeing nothing.

* * *

 **A/N: I re-watched some random** _ **X-Files**_ **episodes the other day and it amazed me that even after all this time Mulder and Scully mange to keep me on the edge of my seat, make me smile, laugh (oh, how I love the funny episodes!) and almost cry. They are still my favourite investigating couple.**


	12. The Man Who Knew Too Much

**A/N: Thanks again to all the lovely people out there for reading / favouriting / commenting. All your encouragement keeps me going. You are the best!**

 **Thank you to ML for beta-ing this. Not only is it great for me to have a native speaker look over it, but also to have a boyfriend who supports me in everything I do. I love you!**

* * *

 **The Man who Knew Too Much**

"There is no point in using the word 'impossible' to describe something that has clearly happened."  
― Douglas Adams, _Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency_

John could not concentrate on the files he was supposed to be looking through, not when peculiar things were happening right in front of his nose. Had he not seen them with his own eyes, he would not have believed them true himself.

How often had Sherlock said to him that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, _however improbable_ , must be the truth? And however improbable it may be, there seemed only one explanation for Sherlock's behaviour: the consulting detective felt something for his pathologist, Molly Hooper. The question was: what exactly did he feel? And was it real, or another cruel trick of his best friend? Would he dare to stoop so low?

It all began when John had come home from Oxford. He had gone to St. Bart's because he knew Sherlock was there and wanted to see how the case was going. Just as he had been about to round the corner to enter the lab, the voices of the pathologist and the consulting detective had made him stop dead in his tracks. He had not meant to eavesdrop, but the opportunity had been too good to resist.

Molly was sitting at a table, filling out some report while Sherlock sat at "his" microscope. But instead of looking into it, he watched the pathologist.

She seemed oblivious to his staring and jumped when Sherlock spoke, "If you had one wish, what would it be? And don't say something dull like peace on earth or to alleviate world hunger. It needs to be something purely selfish."

Slowly the pathologist lowered her pen and turned around to face the consulting detective with raised eyebrows.

John could hardly blame her. Sherlock's unusual question had made his eyebrows wander towards his hairline as well.

Sherlock didn't react at all. He just kept looking at her with an emotionless stare.

Molly cocked her head to the side and regarded the consulting detective, as if figuring out whether he was being serious.

When he didn't react, she answered, "My dad to be alive."

"No."

Molly crossed her arms in front of her chest and leaned back into her seat, "What do you mean by `no`?"

Sherlock didn't take his eyes off her when he replied, "You loved him, and still miss him, but you've made your peace with his demise."

There was a small pause and then he continued, "No, you'd wish for us to be happily married with children."

Now John was worried for a moment. Would Sherlock's harsh statement make Molly cry or slap the detective? But nothing of the sort happened.

Instead Molly said in a calm voice, "You made it clear what you think about the concept of marriage at John's wedding, and you don't want children."

"But you do."

Molly shrugged and let her hands fall to her side.

Now Molly's calm reaction seemed to intrigue the consulting detective, for his eyes widened fractionally, and he leaned forward a bit.

"You would give that up?"

"That's what you do when in a relationship," she said, sounding a tad too careless.

"I thought being in a relationship was about compromise."

"Well, one can hardly compromise on topics like marriage and children, can they?"

"Maybe get a dog instead?" A crooked smile formed on Molly's face and then she turned back around and resumed her paper work.

Sherlock stared at her back for a while before returning to his own work.

* * *

That had been a few days ago and since then John Watson had watched Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper work in tandem. Sure they had always worked well together (as well as one could work with the likes of Sherlock), but it was different now, John could feel it. He just didn't know how to talk to Sherlock about it.

"God, will you finally just open your mouth and ask me what you want to ask? I cannot work when you make so much noise!"

Sherlock growled and turned away from the microscope to look at his best friend. It seemed John didn't need to think about how to bring it up anymore...

John looked up from the files he had been pretending to study and stated, "You and Molly work well together."

Sherlock seemed quite annoyed with John for stating the obvious, "Obviously. That is why I refuse to work with anyone else."

"No, everyone else apart from Molly Hooper refuses to work with you, because you are a git."

When Sherlock's only reply was to give his best friend an irritated look, John continued, "Love is a scary thing. Only people you love can truly hurt you – it makes you vulnerable and takes a lot of courage to love unconditionally."

A wrinkle formed between Sherlock's eyebrows and John knew that his best friend didn't at alllike what he was implying. So he knew he had only a few moments to say what he wanted, before Sherlock would shut down completely and retreat into his mind palace.

So John cleared his throat and went on, "I have seen you and Molly interact in the past couple of days, and..." He took a small pause before he continued, "... and... stop being so nice to her, Sherlock. It's cruel."

There was a dangerous glimmer in Sherlock's eyes. "First I am cruel because I'm not nice to her and now I'm cruel because I am nice to her? Make up your mind, John!"

John sighed. "You are more than nice. If you weren't… you, I'd say you were interested in her."

Sherlock crossed his arm in front of his chest.  
"And how did you deduce that?" he asked in a mocking tone.

John didn't let Sherlock's mockery distract him. He knew his best friend well enough to ignore it. "You seek her company, you look at her when you think no one can see you, you guide her through the door, you seek physical contact…"

Sherlock interrupted him, "I'm working with her."

Now it was John's turn to mock his best friend, "You never seek physical contact when we work together."

There was a small pause, as the consulting detective had no comeback, which annoyed him greatly. Therefore John couldn't help it and tease his friend a bit more, "I see. It's a touchy subject. No pun intended."

When Sherlock glared at him, John raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

Finally Sherlock explained himself, "Of course I treat her differently; she's a woman. Manners demand that I hold open the door for her and guide her through."

John raised an eyebrow. "Since when do you care about manners?"

Again Sherlock glared at him. John took the opportunity to carry on saying what he hoped to get through his best friend's thick skull, "I'm just saying… the signs you are giving her… she could get the wrong impression. Don't give her hope where there is none."

Sherlock looked taken aback. "Molly knows me. She knows that I am married to my work."

"Do you know that as well?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Sherlock hated it when John had that knowing tone. And he hated it even more that he lacked a logical defence.

Instead of answering Sherlock's question, the former army doctor said, "Molly told me about the stakeout."

Sherlock seemed oblivious to what John was implying. "You should follow her example. She brought coffee and scones."

"Sounds more like a date than a stakeout to me."

Once again Sherlock glared at his best friend and then said, "Now, John, the fair sex is your department."

With that he turned around and looked into his microscope again.

John sighed deeply; this conversation had not gone at all like he had planned. While he was still debating whether it was helpful or completely useless to try to get his point across one more time, Sherlock's eyes widened. He looked up from his microscope and stared ahead with a look that was a mixture of surprise, intrigue and annoyance. John had never seen this particular look on the detective's face, and so was quite intrigued himself.

"What is it, Sherlock?"

But his friend ignored him.

Instead the detective said to himself, "I should have seen it. I was supposed to see it. Damn it!"

With that he grabbed his coat and scarf and left without a single word, leaving John Watson behind as if he was not even there.


	13. Vox Populi, Vox Dei

**A/N: Once again thanks for your support and patience. You are all fantastic! Sorry for not getting back to all the PMs, but my life is super stressful. But rest assured that I appreciate every comment and PM and will get back to them as soon as things have settled down.**

 **Trigger Warning: This chapter deals with the subject/aftermath of rape. There is nothing graphic, though.**

 **Thank you again to ML to proofread this chapter and making it better.**

* * *

 **Vox Populi, Vox Dei**

Stars, hide your fires;

Let not light see my black and deep desires.

The eye wink at the hand, yet let that be

Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see. – Macbeth

 **Cambridge 2002**

It was the sort of thing that one saw on TV and read about; the sort that happened to other people, not to those one knew. Not one's best friend. But it had happened. It was real. Too real.

Molly's best friend Abby Grange had been raped, and not by some random stranger who grabbed her in a dark alley on her way home. No, it had been by someone she knew and had trusted - Professor Eustace Brackenstall. He was married, had two children and was very influential.

Thus it had taken Molly hours of persuasion to convince her best friend to go to the doctor and to the police to press charges.

Molly did not leave her side once, although there were moments when she wanted nothing more than to get up and leave the room; to flee, run away from it all. She could hardly stand listening to the police interview, Abby telling them what had happened.

Molly admired her best friend for her bravery. She was not sure if she would have been able to go through all of this if their roles were reversed. She doubted it.

So when Abby cried herself to sleep in her best friend's arms again, Molly rocked her gently and put on a brave face. But there were nights, when Molly was on her own, that she cried herself to sleep too, feeling exhausted and utterly helpless.

* * *

After months of investigation and sleepless nights, a trial that had been eagerly awaited by the local press started. Professor Brackenstall was a well-known and respected man, therefore it was not surprising that the Cambridge Magistrates' Court was crowded with reporters, university staff and students.

There had been rumours preceding the trial, and everyone in the small town was curious. Of course that added additional pressure on Abby and her family.

Although the case seemed clear, Molly was worried. The Brackenstall family was influential and although the medical examination had proven that Abby had been raped, the shower she had taken had washed away possible evidence.

When the trial started, Molly sat in the first row behind Abby and let her eyes roam over the man who had done all of those horrible things to her best friend. And for the first time in her life, Molly Hooper discovered that evil had many faces, some of which looked like a trustworthy elderly man with white hair. Professor Brackenstall sat there with cold eyes, unmoving, as if he was not bothered at all by what he was accused of. Behind him sat his wife, Mary Brackenstall, who had suffered a great deal because of the media storm.

Mary Brackenstall was no ordinary person. Seldom had Molly seen so graceful a figure, so womanly a presence, and so beautiful a face. She was a blonde, golden-haired, blue-eyed, and would no doubt have had the perfect complexion which goes with such colouring, had not her recent experience left her drawn and haggard. Her sufferings were physical as well as mental, for over one eye rose a hideous, plum-coloured swelling. But neither her wits not her courage had been shaken by what she had gone through over the last few months, as would the trial show.

A trial that was supposed to bring Molly's best friend justice, but turned out to make her life even more miserable.

Molly had to watch Abby suffer through the trial, as she was portrayed as a tart by the defense as if she had been after the Brackenstall's money. They tried to paint her as mentally unstable. But the worst of all was Mrs. Brackenstall providing an alibi for her husband.

Molly was furious at the injustice of it and told Abby after another devastating day in court, "It will be alright, Abby. He will pay for what he's done to you, I promise."

Abby just looked at her with sad eyes, too exhausted to pretend to be alright anymore, squeezed her friend's hand and said, "Never promise anything, you may have to keep it."

And somehow that made Molly even more determined to do something. So she started to study Eustace Brackenstall. He limped on his right foot and his left eye twitched slightly when he lied. She easily recognised the signs of drinking and that he preferred red wine was common knowledge. He spent most of his evenings alone in his study with a bottle at hand and read books on ornithology. Even the signs of domestic abuse on his wife were almost cliché. Molly had a hard time believing that no one else seemed to notice it, or that everyone else chose to ignore it; to look away. She was surrounded by hypocrites, and it became clear to her that Abby would not get justice.

And Molly would be proven right. After a highly emotional trial, the jury found Eustace Brackenstall not guilty.

The night after the end of the trial, Abby's parents called Molly. Abby was in hospital after trying to kill herself. And while Molly sat in the fluorescent light of the hospital room, holding Abby's hand and listening to the steady beeping of the heart monitor, she made the decision to keep her promise and help her friend find justice.

* * *

 **A/N: The translation of the chapter title (also a quote from The Adventures of the Abbey Grange) is: The people's voice is God's voice.**


	14. Appearances

**A/N:** **Thank you for your encouragement and support of this story. It means the world to me!**

 **Thank you to ML for proofreading and his suggestions.**

* * *

 **Appearances**

"I give you fair warning before you attempt me further,  
I am not what you supposed, but far different."  
– Walt Whitman, _Whoever you are, holding me now in hand_

Sherlock had had enough of waiting. Patience had never been his strong suit. He had asked Molly repeatedly about the analysis of the hair they found in Tom's flat. But she told him time and time again that she had more pressing matters and would need a few more days to do the analysis.

So Sherlock had grown sick of waiting and decided to do it himself. He didn't need some lab technician or Molly Hopper to do it; he could do so on his own.

The outcome of the test had surprised him, he had to admit. And it meant that he would have to rethink his previous theory about the case of Thomas Hopkins. Therefore he needed to gather more evidence.

* * *

"How many times have I told you to get a new lock? This one is ridiculous. A 13-year-old could break into your flat."

Molly almost dropped the dish she was busy drying when the consulting detective made himself known. She drew a breath to calm her racing heart and turned around.

"And how many times have I told you to just ring the bell and not pick the lock?"

"Twelve times." Sherlock shrugged and went back into the living room.

Molly sighed deeply, put the dish onto the counter, and followed the consulting detective. She really was not in the mood for his games today, and his visit was more than a little unwelcomed.

When Molly entered, Sherlock had just exited her bedroom and was wandering around, which Molly found quite peculiar. Usually he just sat on the couch, closed his eyes and retreated into his mind palace, or went straight into his – her – bedroom, closed the door and was not seen until the next morning, if at all; he often left by the time she got up.

"Sherlock, what brings you here?"

He neither stopped his wandering, nor answered her question. Instead he said without looking at her, "What did I tell you about turtleneck shirts?" He waved a dismissive hand in her direction.

Molly crossed her arms in front of her chest. She was getting more and more angry with her uninvited visitor. "Sherlock, why are you here?"

He stopped his wandering for a moment and looked at some brochures on her coffee table. "I needed a bolt hole."

"Why? You are living alone now."

Sherlock looked at her as if she was being slow on purpose. "That doesn't mean I don't need a bolt hole from time to time."

Sherlock picked up the brochure from the coffee table. Molly hastened to his side.

"Are you planning to go on a cruise? 'The Rock of Gibraltar' sounds like a stupid name for a ship." He held up the brochure. As soon as Molly was at his side, she snatched it from his hand.

"This is none of your business, Sherlock."

The detective cocked an eyebrow. "I think it is. When my pathologist plans to go on vacation, I should know about it."

Molly glared at him, the brochure wrinkled up in her fist.

"I can go wherever and whenever I want. I am not your property, Sherlock Holmes."

There was something in her eyes that Sherlock had never seen there before. It was not only fierce determination, but also an almost dangerous glint that didn't seem to fit sweet Molly Hooper. Sherlock found himself intrigued by it. More than he would admit to himself, let alone anyone else.

The air seemed to be too thick to breathe while they remained staring at each other and Sherlock wondered what had brought on this change. And suddenly he had to think about what John had said about needing a lot of courage to love unconditionally.

Before he could stop his lips from moving he heard himself say, "You are so much braver than I am, because you choose to love."

He reached for her hand, but to his great astonishment she pulled away. He felt rejected, and he hated it. Molly Hooper was not supposed to reject him.

She took a step away from him and her words were like poison, "I didn't choose anything. We do not choose who we love. Or would you have chosen to fall for a dominatrix who worked for your nemesis? Or do you think I would've chosen to fall for a ADD sociopath who is married to his work? If you had been brave, you would not have played games with that woman. And if I had been brave, I would have told you to get lost the first time you used my feelings for you to get access to the lab. We are all cowards here, Sherlock."

She started to walk away from him. Sherlock felt himself getting angry, but managed to keep his voice even, "You're being highly irrational."

Molly stopped dead in her tracks, turned around and glared at him, "I'm a woman; I have the right to be irrational."

Sherlock drew up his eyebrows, "I doubt feminists would agree with you."

"I'm not going to have a gender discourse with you now."

The consulting detective shrugged. "Well, you started it."

Molly gripped the brochure in her hand even harder and stated, "You know where the door is. You can show yourself out."

With that she went into her bedroom and closed the door.

Sherlock shook his head to clear his thoughts. He had no idea what had just happened. Why had he said what he did? What had brought on Molly's reaction?

He was about to turn around and leave, having gathered the evidence he had been looking for, when the buzzing of Molly's phone on the couch caught his attention. Never one to care in the least about privacy during an investigation, he went over, unlocked Molly's phone (her dad's birthday, hardly a challenge) and read the text she had just received:

YOU DID THE RIGHT THING. JUST LIKE WITH EB.

The caller ID said the text was from a certain AG. Sherlock stared at the text. Who was AG?


	15. In Vino Veritas

**A/N: Once again thank you for your encouragement and support. You are the best.**

 **Thanks to ML for his help.**

* * *

 **In Vino Veritas**

"We are products of our past, but we don't have to be prisoners of it."  
― Rick Warren, _The Purpose Driven Life: What on Earth Am I Here for?_

Sherlock paced in Tom's sitting room. He was back at the crime scene, because no matter how he turned it around in his head it just didn't make sense. He was missing something. The pieces of the puzzle would just not fit. He had been in the flat for about an hour and had looked through every drawer and under every piece of furniture, but so far had found nothing new.

With a frustrated growl he sat down in the armchair and opened the file Mycroft had provided him with. Of course his dear brother hadn't given it to him freely; no he had wanted something in return, of course. And his brother had been even more cruel than usual. The deal was that in exchange for the file, Sherlock would have to take their parents to see _Miss Saigon_ next time they were in town. Reluctantly Sherlock had agreed, hoping that an important case would present itself when it was time to fulfil his part of the deal.

It had been pretty easy to find out who AG was. A bit of research in Molly's past and soon Sherlock had found out that the mysterious initials stood for Abby Grange, Molly's college flatmate and presumably friend. However, finding more about Miss Grange turned out to be difficult.

All information about her from 2002 onwards was classified. So he didn't have another choice but to make a deal with the devil (his brother) to get the files. And they proved to be highly interesting indeed.

Miss Abby Grange had accused a well-known and highly influential professor at Cambridge of rape. The defence had fought very dirty and although the evidence was quite clear, the professor was found not guilty. Without a doubt the verdict was a result of the professor's influence and not of justice. And then something peculiar happened; shortly after the trial the professor had died of a heart attack. That in itself was nothing out of the ordinary, especially given that his drinking habits seemed to be well known. But it nagged at Sherlock, his instincts told him that something was wrong with the case, just like with his current one.

An incoming text pulled him from his thoughts.

I AM AT BAKER STREET. WHERE ARE YOU? – JW

Sherlock had asked his best friend to meet him at Baker Street, as he needed the expertise of a doctor.

He texted back:

MRS HUSDON SHALL MAKE TEA. I WILL BE THERE IN 15 MINUTES. – SH

Just as Sherlock was about to get up, something on the armchair caught his eye. He pulled out his magnifying glass and took a closer look. There was blood on the covering. Fortunately Sherlock was always prepared to take samples. So he took it, put it into an evidence bag and left to meet his former flatmate at 221B.

* * *

Half an hour later Doctor John Watson was looking through the report on Professor Eustace Brackenstall, not seeming particularly interested in the case.

"Sherlock, I really don't know what you want me to find. The photos of his room show a wine bottle and a glass. He was a known alcoholic, the autopsy clearly shows that was a heart attack, and furthermore he didn't seem like a nice person in general, so I don't know why you are looking in the first place, let alone what for."

Sherlock, who had been pacing across the sitting room impatiently turned around to face his best friend and said, "I am sorry to make you the victim of what may seem a mere whim, but on my life, John, I simply can't leave the case in this condition. Every instinct that I possess cries out against it. It's wrong – it's all wrong – I'll swear that it's wrong."

John sighed, "So you think that he has been murdered?"

Sherlock contemplated that for a second, before he replied, "Maybe. I think they missed something back then. Just have another look at the autopsy report, will you."

John rolled his eyes, for he thought it was quite pointless. None-the-less, he read it through once more, and took a closer look at the hospital reports from the time of Professor Brackenstall's heart attack.

Sherlock was just about to tell him to leave it be, when the eyes of the former army doctor widened and he stated, "I think I have found something, Sherlock."

Sherlock went over to where his friend was sitting while John pulled out the piece of paper that showed the ECG and explained, "When Brackenstall was brought into A-&-E they did an ECG. As you can see there are peaked T-waves and small P-waves."

Sherlock stared at the waves John was talking about, but didn't understand their meaning. Though he was very clever, even he lacked the medical expertise of a doctor, and that was why he had John Watson.

"And what does that mean?" he asked impatiently.

"The ECG looks similar to one of a heart attack, but is still different and tells me that professor Brackenstall didn't die of a heart attack but of hyperkalaemia. Like I said, the ECG waves look very similar to a heart attack and that is why it's often overlooked by doctors. It's caused by an overdose of potassium chloride. However, he didn't suffer from hypokalaemia, so why was there such a high dose of potassium chloride in his body?"

Sherlock snatched the file from John's lap and looked at the photos taken of the room in which Eustace Brackenstall had died. His face lit up and he got the excited glint in his eyes that told John that it would not be long before another murderer would be put behind bars, thanks to Sherlock Holmes.

With fascination in his voice Sherlock said, "This case rises from the common place to the exceedingly remarkable."

And before John had a chance to ask for an explanation or even open his mouth to reply, Sherlock Holmes had left 221B, his billowing coat following him out the door.


	16. Two Glasses

**A/N: I'm glad to read that you seem to still enjoy my little story. For those who have theories, sorry I didn't get back to you, but I don't want to spoil anything.**

 **So I hope you'll enjoy the next chapter. And because some people asked: there will be a total of 20 chapters.**

 **Thanks to ML for proofreading. You are awesome!**

* * *

 **Two Glasses**

"I protected you from those who tried to harm you.  
And I believed you though I knew the words were lies.  
But it was me who had to say that I was sorry.  
It was always me you cut right down to size.  
How do you feel when the tables have been turned?  
What will you do now the bridges have been burned?"  
\- Gaudi – The Musical, _Too Late_

Though Sherlock spent the next days at St. Bart's, he didn't talk much to Molly. Well, that was an understatement; he didn't talk to her at all and tried to avoid her as best as he could. Most of the time he locked himself in the lab, where he ran tests he didn't tell anyone about. Without question, occupying the lab so much caused problems and controversy, still Sherlock remained unimpressed and continued his work.

So on day three, after being called by Mike Stamford and Molly again, John Watson took it upon himself once more to talk to his best friend in the hopes of figuring out what was going on. He didn't have any illusions that it would go smoothly, still he wanted to give it a try. After all he was a hopeless optimist when it came to Sherlock Holmes.

John was surprised that the lab was not locked and that he could enter without issue. Sherlock sat hunched over a report of some sort, his eyes scanning the page.

John waited patiently for the consulting detective to acknowledge his presence. When that didn't happen, he cleared his throat loudly and said, "Sherlock, will you explain to me what is going on? You've locked yourself in here and made it impossible for the doctors and students to work."

Sherlock didn't look up from the page he was reading. "Leave me alone John."

"Not until you have told me what's going on."

"None of your business. You have another child to take care of now, remember. Go back home before Mary has to come look for you."

"You're being cruel."

"I'm merely being honest."

"With you, that's mostly the same."

When Sherlock still didn't look up from his work, John sighed and tried another approach, "You hide in your work."

Sherlock replied drily, "I'm used to relying on intellect."

John crossed his arms in front of his chest, getting more and more annoyed with his best friend.

"Why are you being so dismissive of Molly all of a sudden?"

Finally that made Sherlock look up from whatever he was reading.

"It's complicated," he said coldly.

Had the situation not been so frustrating, John would have chuckled. Instead he said without any humour in his voice, "I figure that 90% of all relationship talks include that line."

Sherlock's face became a stony mask and John knew he had hit a nerve. "We're not having a relationship talk!"

John nodded, "Believe me, we are."

Sherlock was about to turn back to his notes, when John gave it another try, "I've seen you two gaze at one another."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I do not gaze at Molly Hooper."

The amount of contempt the consulting detective said it with made it almost comical. They stared at each other for a moment, both daring the other to say more.

Finally John had enough, threw his hands up in the air in frustration and ranted, "I've been so busy trying to come up with feeble excuses for you - he doesn't know, he doesn't understand, he's oblivious, he's suffering from Asperger's … When I just didn't want to see the truth, which was is much simpler and more cruel. You just plain don't care."

John's words seem to leave the consulting detective unimpressed, and he stated without emotion, "You told me I was not capable of love."

John rolled his eyes, "I've never said such a thing."

A crooked smile formed on Sherlock's lips, "You said I should not give Molly hope where there was none."

The former army doctor shook his head, "I didn't mean… that's not what I meant."

"Why do people never say what they mean?" Sherlock seemed frustrated and desperate at the same time. John could hardly blame him. Fundamentally, he felt the same, although for different reasons.

John took a deep breath and tried to explain, "I know that you are capable of love. Sometimes you show it in a weird way – by throwing people out of a window or jumping off roofs – but I believe that once you love, you love fiercely. I meant that you should not give her hope of a relationship if you were not interested getting together with her."

Sherlock's expression changed. His black brows drew together, his forehead contracted, his eyes became vacant and far away. For a moment John was not sure if his best friend had retreated into his mind palace, when he suddenly spoke up again, "We have not met our Waterloo, John, but this is our Marengo, for it begins in defeat and ends in victory."

The former army doctor just stared at him. "Mate, what are you talking about?"

In a swift motion the consulting detective got up, grabbed his coat and scarf and mumbled while he rushed past his friend, "I must return. Two glasses."

John could only stare after him in disbelieve as he was once again left behind by Sherlock Holmes.


	17. Abby Grange

**A/N: Once again thank you for all the comments, follows... I love hearing about your thoughts on it.**

 **ML also made this chapter better. Thank you.**

* * *

 **Abby Grange**

"Your past is always your past. Even if you forget it, it remembers you."  
― Sarah Dessen, _What Happened to Goodbye_

It was time to pay Abby Grange a visit. Ever since Sherlock Holmes had read the file on her he had debated if he should see her or not. Although he was fairly certain of what had happened more than 10 years ago, he needed proof. He wanted to hear it from the person whose horrible fate had set everything in motion.

Therefore he found himself knocking on the blue wooden door of a small flat in Marsham, Kent.

The door opened after his third knock, and as it did. Sherlock walked straight into the flat, past a very surprised woman.

He turned around and faced her.

"Good day, Miss Grange."

Abby Grange was a tall woman, with short blonde hair. She was very thin and had dark circles under her eyes, along with chapped lips from chewing on them too much. Sherlock deduced that the latter was a nervous habit of hers, linked to nicotine addiction. She stared at him; clearly flummoxed that he had entered her place in such a manner.

After a moment, in which she managed to get over most of her surprise, she stated, "You are that sleuth in the papers. Ever thought of getting a pipe? Would go well with that hat of yours."

Sherlock, unimpressed by her statement, replied, "I am not here to talk about my style of clothing"

Abby Grange closed the door and crossed her arms. "I know why you are here. And since you are so clever, you know that coming here was a waste of time. I have nothing to say."

Her lips formed a tight line, as if to prove her point.

Sherlock just looked at her, and for a moment there was a staring contest between the two of them. In the end Miss Grange gave in as curiosity got the better of her, "How did you know where I live?"

"I followed you."

"I saw no one."

A sly smile formed on Sherlock's lips, "That is what you may expect to see when I follow you."

Abby Grange shook her head and walked past the consulting detective.

"What happened in Cambridge in 2002?" he asked without further ado.

Abby acted unimpressed and went to put the kettle on the stove.

"I'm sure you've read the police reports, Mr. Holmes. You know very well what happened."

"But I want to know was what was not written in the police reports, because I am sure that is much more interesting."

Abby paused what she was doing a moment. "You are very nosy, Mr Holmes."  
The consulting detective took that as a compliment. "It is my business to be."

Abby Grange didn't say anything to that. Sherlock went over to the kitchen counter to observe her better. She looked as he had expected; a woman who had gone through severe trauma and still struggled in life. He felt sorry for her and hated the man who had almost managed to break this woman.

Sherlock changed the subject. "I know you have heard what happened to Tom Hopkins."

Abby seemed to ignore him, yet still muttered under her breath while pouring the tea, "The sly devil."

Sherlock continued, "There is a certain element of improbability in Molly's story of his demise, and a lady's charming personality must not be permitted to warp my judgement."

Abby Grange looked up from the two cups of tea, "Yeah, Molly has told me that you are oblivious to womanly charms, and talk in a peculiar way..."

She walked past him into the sitting room, put the two cups down and sat in an armchair. Sherlock followed her, but remained standing.

"So, Miss Grange, what happened to Professor Brackenstall and to Tom?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "They died, as far as I know."

Sherlock glared at her, he'd had enough of her games.

"You know exactly what I am talking about, Miss Grange. Do us both a favour and don't act as if you are stupid, because I know you are anything but."

Abby Grange looked at him with a calculating stare, as if evaluating whether she could trust him. She seemed to come to a decision.

"Molly has talked a lot about you. She trusts you and has said that you are the most brilliant man she has ever met. Yet you have been so blind and stupid."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. He didn't at all like to be called stupid. But Abby Grange ignored him and went on, "I have heard some queer stories about Tom. He was a good-hearted man when he was sober, but a perfect fiend when he was drunk, or rather when he was half drunk, for he seldom went the whole way. The devil seemed to be in him at such times, and he was capable of anything."

She took a small pause during which she sipped at her tea, and then she continued, "There was a scandal about him drenching his dog in petroleum and setting it on fire. His friends have taken care of the dog ever since. Then he threw a decanter at that ex-girlfriend of his, Theresa Wright. On the whole, and between ourselves, it will be a brighter world without him."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to be surprised. But he did not show it.

Abby Grange put her cup down.

"And that is all I have to say, Mister Holmes."


	18. Head or Heart

**A/N: Once again thank you for all you patience and encouragement. It means a lot to me!**

* * *

 **Head or Heart**

"All men make mistakes, but a good man yields when he knows his course is wrong, and repairs the evil. The only crime is pride."  
― Sophocles, _Antigone_

It was the ultimate cosmic joke. Sherlock Holmes didn't want to believe it, but if one eliminated all other factors. The one which remained must be the truth. And although the consulting detective did not like at all what that meant, he was a man who's commitment to the truth was absolute to the point of grandeur, hence he couldn't ignore it. No matter how much he wished he could.

He had been tricked before – by Magnussen, almost by Moriarty. But never would he have thought that Molly Hooper were the person who deceived him. He had thought she was a blank page, but no one was. So why had he thought that she was any different?

"Everyone has a dark side." That may have been the only true thing she had ever said to him. Everything seemed like a lie now – a blatant manipulation. All the time she had been hiding her true face from his gaze.

How could he not see it? The answer was quite easy: Because he hadn't bothered to look, because he made himself not observe. To keep himself from deducing, from analysing, from coming up with a mean comment about meat dagger-Tom. He had turned a blind eye to everything that had seemed like a potential flaw as not to ruin Molly Hooper's happiness.

The one time he had tried to do the right thing, everything had gone wrong. The one time he should have paid attention, the one time he should have intervened, he had turned away. Could he forgive himself for letting a friend down like this? Could he forgive her for lying to him?

In the last few weeks, the pathologist had been on his mind a lot. The pathologist was a person that stirred mixed feelings inside him. On the one hand it had scared the hell out of him, because he could not deceive her, could not hide behind a mask. On the other hand, he felt relief in her presence. There was no need for pretence, for an act, because she would see right through him. She knew who he was and still accepted him.

Even though Molly had been reluctant to work with him on Tom's case, they had worked well together and things had run smoothly. Working with Molly Hooper was... almost pleasant, and then all of a sudden things had begun to change.

He had never thought it possible, but while he had tried to get closer to Molly, she had desperately tried to keep her distance, and he had felt her slipping away. Never had he believed that Molly Hooper would take two steps back when he would take one step forward – towards her. It was as if life was upside down.

At the time he had thought that maybe she was afraid or doubted his motives. He could hardly blame her. But now he knew better. It was he who should have doubted her motives.

He had started to list what he knew about Molly Hooper – apart from the obvious: pathologist, single, only child, had a cat, was once engaged, had a bad taste in men, her mum died when she was in primary school, der dad died while she was at Uni, she was friends with a colleague called Meena, ... But what did he really know about her? About her past – apart from the things he could deduce? Hardly anything.

He had made the same mistake as most people, as Moriarty: He had underestimated Molly Hooper. Not in the same way Moriarty had, because as opposed to his nemesis he knew that Molly Hooper was capable of much more than most people gave her credit for. But he had to admit that he had made a mistake, he had not looked close enough. He had never bothered to take a minute and see her – really see her. Like she had had seen him.

He had always boasted himself with being detached from being interested in other people's personal lives because it was a waste of time. But now he had to admit that if he had paid more attention to his friend's personal life, things might have been gone a different path and he would not be in this situation. He would have found out that one of his friends lead some kind of double life.

Mary's face came to his mind. But Molly's deceit was very different than Mary's. Her situation was very different. And while Sherlock had also been mad at himself for being so easily fooled by his friend's wife, he had been more worried for John than Mary. Her deceit had not felt nearly as personal as Molly's did.

As much as he loathed to admit it, Molly Hooper had managed to hurt him. Deeply. And now he felt torn between resenting her for doing this to him, hating himself for letting it happen, feeling sorry for her because of what she had gone through, admiring her for her strength and his responsibility towards justice and the law. What was he supposed to do now? What was the right thing? Or was the wrong thing the right one in this case?

He thought about consulting John. After all the former army doctor was his moral compass. He would know what the right thing was. But somehow he felt like it was not his place to tell anyone Molly's secret. Somehow that felt like deceiving her.

So it seemed like he would have to come up with a decision all on his own. A decision, which would alter his pathologist's life forever.


	19. Frenzy

**A/N: Thank you all for being so wonderful and encouraging and once again sorry for the long wait.**

 **Thank you to my dear friends here who have forgiven me for not getting back to them in months. You are the best!**

 **Thank you to ML for beta-ing this thing.**

* * *

**Frenzy**

"How do you leave the past behind  
when it keeps finding ways to get to your heart?  
It reaches way down deep and tears you inside out  
'til you're torn apart." – Jonathan Larson, _Rent_

 **Wednesday, 9:46 p.m. – Two weeks earlier**

Sometimes Molly Hooper wished for someone to make everything alright. Was that too much to ask for? She wished for all of this to be over. She sometimes wished to live someone else's life and not the complicated mess that was hers. She wished for the cliché knight in shining armour.

But, although she wished for that in her weak moments, Molly Hooper was not so naïve as to believe in fairy tales or miracles. She might be a hopeless romantic, but she was still a very logical person and believed in empirical evidence. Anyways, life had taught her that no matter how much a knight in shining armour might be needed, he would not show up. That more often than not people did not get justice and that life was unfair.

So once again Molly Hooper found herself dealing with a situation all on her own, not knowing how she was supposed to handle it.

She stood outside of Tom's flat, clutching the ransom letter in her hand. He had done many vicious things – especially when he had been drunk – but she would not have believed that he would abduct her cat in order to get to her. Once again she had been wrong about Thomas Hopkins.

Molly took a deep breath and finally dared to knock on the door. In a matter of seconds it swung open. It happened so quickly that Molly wondered if Tom had been behind the door all along – maybe watching her through the peephole. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes red-rimmed. He was drunk and probably off his meds. Molly knew she had to be prepared for the worst when he was in this state.

Without a single word he grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her inside the flat.

As soon as the door closed behind Molly she pulled her hand from Tom's grip and let her eyes roam his place, looking for her tabby.

"Tom, where is Toby?" Molly desperately tried to let her voice sound calm, but failed miserably.

There was no trace of her tomcat, and the pathologist was becoming more and more worried by the second. After all she knew what Tom had done to Fudge. That thought made her shiver involuntarily.

Tom looked her up and down with a weird mixture of disgust and longing.

"You are late," he growled, ignoring her question completely.

So Molly asked again, "Where is my cat?"

Now Tom seemed to have heard her question, but instead of answering it, there was a vicious glint in his eyes that made Molly's blood run cold. He turned away from her and walked over to the coffee table where two glasses and a bottle of wine stood.

He pointed towards the bottle and ordered, "Open it and pour us a glass, will ya?"

Molly wanted to protest and tell him that she was not interested in a glass of wine and that he had already had more wine than was good for him and that she only wanted her cat back and she knew better than to do so; it was best to follow his instructions and play his game for now. That was the fastest way to get her beloved tabby back. She had learned what the consequences for not following his orders in the past.

So, she walked over to the coffee table as well.

"You got a cork screw?"

Tom only shrugged and plopped down onto the couch, waiting to be served.

Molly sighed, opened her bag, put the ransom letter inside, retrieved her penknife and opened the bottle with its cork screw.

Tom sat on the couch and watched her with a satisfied smile on his face, which Molly had come to loathe over time. The smile meant that he was up to something which she would not like at all.

After opening the bottle she poured Tom a glass. When she was about to put the bottle down again, Tom said, "Oh no, you'll have some too. After all we have to celebrate that you have finally come to your senses and decided to see me again."

Molly clutched the bottle in her hand a bit harder in orderS to keep herself from saying things she knew he would make her regret.

Instead, she reluctantly poured herself a glass as well. As she put the bottle back down onto the coffee table Tom picked his glass up, raised it and toasted, "To a new beginning."

When Molly didn't raise her glass as well, Tom raised his eyebrows until she did so. She didn't respond to the toast but took a small sip of the red wine. She didn't really taste the wine, but felt it run down her throat, making her feel even sicker than she already did. She quickly put the glass back onto the table.

"So, now where is he?"

Tom raised his eyebrows again and feigned ignorance. "Who?"

Molly rolled her eyes. "Tom, stop it. Where is Toby?"

Slowly her ex fiancé put his glass down onto the coffee table and regarded her with a coldness she had come to know all too well.

"So is that why you came, because of that stupid fur ball? And there I thought you wanted to see me..."

Molly didn't comment, but stared to walk towards the bedroom instead.

Faster than Molly would have given him credit for, Tom shot up from the couch and grabbed her forcibly by the arm. She tried to escape his grip, but he was too strong.

"Let me go!" Her words were a mixture between a command and a plea.

Tom stared at her, his eyes cold. "So, you wanna know where your kitty-cat is?"

Molly tried to yank free from his grip, but failed once again. He pulled her even closer and whispered into her ear, "Then let me show you were your precious little cat is."

His breath smelled of alcohol; it made Molly turn her head away. He pulled her forcibly along with him into the adjoining kitchen. and walked towards a brown cardboard box sitting on the counter. A strong sense of foreboding overcame Molly, and she felt her stomach turn into knots.

When they reached the counter, Tom pulled at Molly's arm so that she was standing between him and the counter, leaving her no way to escape.

Her ex-fiancé leaned over her to open the cardboard box. When he revealed its content, Molly could not hold back a sob from escaping her mouth. There, inside the cardboard box, lay her precious tomcat, motionless.

The pathologist's eyes started to water with tears.

"What have you done to him?" Her words were barely above a whisper.

When Tom didn't answer. She turned around in his arms so quickly that she could see the surprise in his eyes, and screamed at him, "What have you done to him, you monster!?"

In an act of desperation she pushed against his chest, which proved to be a fatal decision.

Rage blazed in Tom's eyes, and the pathologist instantly knew that she had made a mistake.

He caught her first by the wrist and then by the throat. The petite woman opened her mouth to scream, but he struck a savage blow to her face and felled her to the ground.

Molly felt dizzy and blood ran from her nose. She tried to brace herself on her arms to crawl away from Tom into the living room as he approached.

"I told you, you would regret leaving me!" he hollered.

Molly managed to crawl towards the chair and pulled herself up a bit, holding onto the armrest. Blood ran down her nose and chin, but she didn't see or feel it. Her head was swimming and she heard her heartbeat in her ears.

With one more big stride Tom was upon her again. He grabbed her by the shoulder and started to shake her.

Tears were streaming down Molly's face and her head was pounding with every shake from Tom. His grip became even more forceful as he started to pull her closer and leaned in in an attempt to kiss her.

When Molly realised what he was about to do something inside her snapped and with all the strength she had in her, she pushed him away.

Tom was so surprised by her sudden resistance that he lost his grip on her and tumbled backwards.

For Molly it felt like she was watching in slow motion as Tom tried to reach for her as he lost his balance, fell backwards and hit his head on the coffee table. With a cracking sound his body hit the floor and then there was silence.

For a moment Molly Hooper was free of all feelings, and it was pure bliss.

Then reality set back in and she started to panic. She rushed over to the man lying on the floor as the blood from his head wound slowly stained the rug underneath the coffee table.

"Tom?" she breathed his name and felt for a pulse at his carotid. She closed her eyes for a moment when she didn't find one. She touched the backside of his head and neck, staining her hands with blood in the process.

When she felt the back of his neck and found what she had anticipated she whispered, "No, please, no," knowing that no one heard her and no one would help her.

Tom's neck was broken. He was dead.

As if touching him had burned her she pulled her hands back and stared at the man she had wished dead a dozen times over the past year. Now that he was she felt no satisfaction, just pain and sadness. This was not what she had wanted. This was not how things were supposed to go.

With a heavy sigh she sat down onto the floor and watched, as if in trance as the pool of blood around Tom's head became bigger and bigger.

What was she supposed to do now? Call the police? No, they would arrest her for murder. Call Sherlock? Absolutely not. He would not understand.

There was no one she could call. No one she could tell what she had done. Everyone would think she was stupid for falling for a man like Tom. They would think she was weak for staying with him.

A wave of shame and guilt washed over her. No, she could not tell anyone. She had to find a way to deal with the situation.

The pathologist drew a few calming breaths to try to straighten her thoughts. No one knew she was here. All of Tom's friends knew he was an alcoholic and that he took heavy medication. She looked at the corpse in front of her. It could have been an accident. It was an accident, after all. He had fallen and hit his head. It could have happened without her participation. All she needed to do was get rid of any signs that she had been in the flat and have an alibi.

As the wheels turned in her head, she felt her pulse quicken and adrenaline rush through her body. She had lied about a murder before, she could do it again.

The pathologist closed her eyes for a moment to prepare for what she had to do.

With shaky legs she got up and went to the bathroom. The crimson arc under her nails stood out starkly against her pale skin. She turned on the water. The image in the mirror was battered but by no means beaten. Tears, familiar and fought, blurred her vision as blood dried under her nose. Swelling started where Tom's hands had caught her by the throat and she suspected that it would turn into quite a nasty bruise over the course of the next few hours.

Molly splashed cold water onto her face and started to clean her hands with a nail brush. The blood under her fingernails didn't come off at first and panic started to rise in her. She was afraid she had been permanently and visibly stained by her sins.

After a few minutes of scratching, it finally came off and Molly's chest felt a bit lighter.

having cleaned herself up she went back into the living room and started to look around. She needed to get rid of all the evidence in the flat that proved she had been here. She was surprised by how easy she found it to distance herself and look at the rooms as any other crime scene.

First she walked over to the coffee table. She poured the remains of the wine from her glass into Tom's, so that it was filled to the brim. She put her penknife back into her bag.

With her glass in hand she walked over into the kitchen, washed and dried it and then put it into the cupboard.

With a tea towel she went back into the living room and wiped the wine bottle. She had touched it after all and didn't want to leave any fingerprints. She did the same with everything else she thought she might have touched while in the apartment.

When she was done, she stood in the living room and looked down at herself and the cloth in her hand. Her shirt was stained with blood from both her and Tom; if she were prone to melodrama she'd have burned it. But since she was not, she only put the cloth into her bag, planning to throw it into the Themes - and then pulled on her coat. She would deal with her bloody shirt later.

She walked into the kitchen to pick up what she had come for in the first place, but had to stop mid-action. Molly felt tears sting her eyes again, and her hands shake as she reached for the cardboard box in which Toby lay. She could not help but to think that he almost looked as if he was asleep.

She drew a deep breath and then closed the lid and carefully picked up the box. She didn't know yet what she would do with her beloved tabby. All she knew was that she would not leave him here with his murderer.

With the box in her shaking hands Molly made her way through the apartment, thinking it would be the last time she was here. The pathologist refused to look at Tom's body on the floor. She knew she couldn't handle it.

As she closed the door behind her and made her way towards St. Bartholomew's hospital, knowing that the perfect alibi awaited her there, the only thing she felt was fatigue.


	20. Dial M for Molly

**A/N: Thank you all for sticking with me until the end and being so wonderful and encouraging. I know I've kept you waiting for updates quite a while now and then. My only excuse is that my life changed completely from when I started writing this story last year to now. I don't even live on the same continent anymore...  
So, thanks for being patient, taking the time and being a part of this journey. **

**Once again a kiss to me beta ML. Thank you for making this story and my life better.**

* * *

 **Dial M for Molly**

"The end of understanding is not to prove and find reason, but to know and believe." – Thomas Carlyle

"Come, Molly Hooper, come", he cried. "The game is on. Not a word! Into your clothes and come!"

Molly almost jumped out of her skin when Sherlock Holmes stood beside her bed, waking her up much too early in the morning. She blinked a few times, trying to focus on the man in her bedroom, who seemed to be even more impatient than usual.

"Sherlock, what...?" she started, but he interrupted her, "I said not a word, now get dressed and come." With that he turned around and left her to get ready.

Thirteen Minutes later Molly Hooper stood in her living room, ready to go, watching Sherlock Holmes pacing.

"I'm ready," she announced, not sure if he realised she had entered the room since he seemed to be deep in thoughts.

He stopped his pacing immediately and suddenly all of his attention was focused on her. Molly felt her cheeks turn hot and she was sure the detective noticed her blush. She had no idea what was going on, but started to get a bad feeling.

Sherlock moved closer and regarded her with great interest.

"Sherlock, what's..." But once again he interrupted her, "The way you did it was quite canny. But then I've always know you to be clever."

Now Molly really had a bad feeling; she felt her stomach turn into knots and she felt sudden chill came over her. She tried her best not to let her nerves show. She closed her eyes. If he didn't see her, then maybe he wouldn't see her.

By now Sherlock was circling around her; Molly knew she had to open her eyes again. Apart from not wanting to appear suspicious, hearing Sherlock's steps as he walked around her was making her even more nervous.

SO, she summoned her courage and opened her eyes - she almost stumbled backwards in surprise; Sherlock was standing right in front of her, his pale blue eyes focused on her.

"What happened the Prof. Eustace Brackenstall?"

Molly needed her best acting skills not to let her surprise and stress show. She took a breath and tried to reply as calmly as possible, "What do you mean, Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighed dramatically and rolled his eyes. "Don't play dumb Molly Hooper, it doesn't suit you. What happened to Eustace Brackenstall?"

Since Sherlock was standing a bit too close for her comfort, she took a conscious step back before answering, "I don't understand why you want to talk about a former professor of mine..."

The consulting detective cocked his head to the side. "You understand very well. Now would you inform me of the true circumstances of Prof. Eustace Brackenstall's death, or do you want me to tell you?"

Molly felt her heart beat so wildly in her chest, that she feared Sherlock could hear it. Defensively she crossed her arms in front of her chest and said, "The truth belongs to me."

A sly smile formed on Sherlock's face, as if he was satisfied with her answer and he resumed pacing as he told her what he had found out about the death of her former professor, "You probably wonder why I bring up Professor Brackenstall at all when we're actually investigating on the death of your former fiancé? But it's quite logical. It all started the other day when I saw a text on from a certain AG on your phone. It said, 'YOU DID THE RIGHT THING. JUST LIKE WITH EB'."

Molly was about to interrupt him, but Sherlock held up a hand.

"Please keep from berating me about privacy or the like; you know it is irrelevant now."

Molly closed her mouth again and Sherlock went on, "Naturally I was curious about whom AG was. As it turned out the initials belonged to one Abby Grange, your former flatmate at uni who had accused one of her professors of rape."

Sherlock took a small pause to let it sink in, and Molly felt the need to sit down, fearing she knew where the conversation was leading. Despite this, she refrained and remained standing.

"So I paid Abby Grange a visit. Don't worry she is a real friend and didn't tell me what had happened. Anyways, she didn't need to. Looking through the evidence and the old police files was all I needed. Granted, I had a little help from John, but I would have managed without him, I'm sure."

Molly couldn't resist any longer and sat down in the armchair. Sherlock smiled smugly at her action, as if it proved something to him and then went on, "According to the medical report Eustace Brackenstall died of a heart attack, but as John pointed out the ECG showed peaked T-waves and small P-waves; typical for a person suffering from hyperkalaemia, which leads to a heart attack. But he didn't suffer from hypokalaemia, so why was there such a high dose of potassium chloride in his body? The doctors didn't see that at the time, because it is something easily overlooked, and they were stupid or lazy. Additionally, they don't check for it when doing an autopsy - because potassium chloride is an electrolyte found naturally in the body. And who would know that better than a prospective pathologist?"

Sherlock stopped his pacing and now looked Molly directly in the eye. She had a hard time not casting her eyes down, but she managed to withstand his look.

Sherlock continued, "As I looked through the photos of the crime scene, I discovered something interesting: Professor Brackenstall was known to be a heavy drinker, so no one had paid attention to the wine bottle and glass beside his body. Probably because no one but me realised that they had been the murder weapon. There was beeswing, or potassium bitartrate, in the glass and bottle. That's nothing out of the ordinary in itself, but in the right dose it can be deadly because of the excess of potassium, which leads to hyperkalemia – Professor Brackenstall's cause of death."

Now Sherlock took a step towards Molly and looked down on her. "So it looks as if Professor Eustace Brackenstall did not die a natural death, but was killed. Probably by someone very knowledgeable in medicine and chemistry. Someone who's best friend's life had more or less been destroyed by that man. What do you think, Molly?"

It took the pathologist a moment to let it sink; to understand everything Sherlock had just laid out. For such a long time she had tried not to think of it, to forget it, but she never had. It had always been in the back of her mind. And although she knew she would do it all over again, she felt guilty. She had taken another person's life and there was no denying that.

She didn't know what to say. There was so much and yet nothing. She knew it was useless defending herself or explaining it. Sherlock already knew it all and everything she could say had likely already crossed his mind. Therefore she remained silent and stared at the rug beneath her feet.

Instead Sherlock asked, "Has anyone known, apart from Abby Grange?"

Molly gulped and had to hold back tears. She nodded, "Yes, my dad. That's why he was sad in the end, before he died. He knew it, but we never talked about it."

She didn't look up. If she had, she'd have seen the sad expression on Sherlock's face.

"I'd have never have thought you were capable of this," he told her honestly.

That made Molly look at him, with tears glistering in her eyes.  
"I've deceived people for 2 years. I am good with secrets," she said with a sad smile.

Sherlock returned it.

"I won't pretend to know what you've gone through," he said, sounding surprisingly sympathetic.

Molly shook her head, "But you do know. You know exactly how it feels to kill someone in order to protect a friend."

"Or the people you love?"

Molly raised her eyebrows, "You don't believe in love, Sherlock."

He looked at her as if that thought was completely absurd.  
"I would be a fool not to. Love is one of the strongest motivations. In my work I see what love – or at least what people mistake it for – can do. People are capable of the cruellest things in the name of love."

Then his expression changed; his features became softer as he looked at her and added, "And of the most incredible and impossible things."

There was a pause, in which both looked into each other's eyes and for a moment Molly believed that everything would be alright and that she would get a happily ever after in the end. But then she remembered the beginning of their conversation, and that this was probably the end of her life as a free woman.

Her face turned to stone; she blinked back the tears that had threatened to fall and sat up straight. She would not give in as a crying coward. She would at least try to appear strong.

Sherlock realised the change in her stance instantly and his face also became a mask once more. He straightened and began pacing again, waiting for Molly to say something. She did eventually, "But there's more to why you told me about Brackenstall, right?"

Sherlock stopped his pacing for a moment, as if to think how he wanted to continue until he resumed pacing and confirmed, "Yes, there's more. Your story is an absolute fabrication."

"Which story?" Molly asked confused.

"About the last time you saw Tom. Basically everything about Tom." He looked at her hard and once again Molly had to cast her eyes down. She'd feared that he had found out from the moment he first looked at her that morning, but had hoped she was wrong. Obviously she was not.

Sherlock realised Molly was not going to say anything, he decided to do the talking, "There was also a wine bottle and crusting on the wine glass in Tom's flat, so as soon as I found out what had happened to Eustace Brackenstall and talked to Abby Grange, I suspected that was how Tom had died as well."

Molly's head snapped in his direction and she opened her mouth to protest, but Sherlock held up a hand and told her, "Let me finish. I know this is not what happened. I know you didn't kill him on purpose. It was an accident, wasn't it?"

All of the sudden his features softened and he walked over to her. When he leaned down to her, Molly tried to turn her head away, but he gently held her chin in place. With delicate fingers he pulled away the scarf around her neck to reveal a nasty blue-green bruise, turning yellow-ish.

His eyes widened and he gulped. He brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. It was almost a caress.

"What did he do to you, Molly?"

Molly couldn't look him in the eyes. She felt tears stinging at her own again and she knew she would start to cry as soon as she looked at him. She didn't want to cry. Not again.

The consulting detective realised that the pathologist wouldn't or couldn't say anything at the moment, so he offered, "Do you want me to tell you what happened, and how I found out?"

Molly still didn't look at him, but nodded with her head staring at her feet.

Sherlock resumed pacing, as was his habit when telling of his own brilliance.

"As I've been told, Tom was not only prone to alcohol and anti-depressants, but also to beating his girlfriends. That's why you get along well with Theresa Wright. You sympathise with her. After Abby Grange told me about Tom's real nature I went back to the Tyburn convent you followed Theresa Wright into. As it turns out there are no AA-meetings held there, but support groups for domestic abuse."

Molly didn't interrupt him to ask how he had gotten into the women-only convent.

"So I knew you had lied to me from the beginning and began to go over every piece of information you had given me up until that point and everything you did. For instance at the beginning of our investigation you said 'he was my ex-fiancé' – you were rather quick with the past tense."

Sherlock walked over to Molly's bag which was on a chair, opened it and retrieved her pen knife.

"The wine bottle in Tom's flat was opened with a cork screw which could not be found in the flat; hence it had to be somewhere else. I remembered seeing you retrieve your pen knife – which you always carry with yourself – out of your bag the night I came to the lad and Tom died."

Sherlock inspected the cork screw on the of the pen knife. "I'm positive the marks on the cork fit this screw."

He closed the knife again and put it down onto the coffee table.

"Talking about the lab, I checked your alibi. You were there when I came in, but you had only arrived shortly before I did. I talked to Mike Stamford and he told me you were adamant that you overtake his shift, because I was coming in, and had demanded to work with you. Therefore he left you the rest of his shift. You knew I would come in, because I always do when I come back from a case, and John had informed you of my return. Hence, you presumed you had the perfect alibi."

Molly drew a deep breath, sighed heavily and drew a shaking hand through her hair. Sherlock was too busy telling his tale to notice her reaction.

"When you didn't hurry with the analysis of the hair we found in Toms flat I did it myself and found out that it was a cat's hair, which led to the conclusion that it was like to be of your cat. So I came to your place and looked for Toby, who was nowhere to be found. Something must have happened to him. While I was here, I also discovered the catalogue on cruises and you reacted very peculiarly when I asked you about it. You were not planning on going on vacation; you were planning on going away."

Molly sat up and leaned back against the backrest of the armchair with her eyes closed. So many thoughts and feeling were rushing through her that her head was swimming. She was not sure if she was appalled, scared or relieved that Sherlock was so right about all of it.

In the meantime Sherlock went on, "Then I went back to Tom's flat. Like I've said before I knew another glass had been used, washed and dried. Very likely by a woman, given that most men never bother to dry glasses, so water stains remain on them. Then, while I was sitting in Tom's armchair thinking, I discovered a bloodstain. I did a test and found out that it was your blood. He very likely hit you. When I saw you that night I mistook your swollen nose and red cheeks for signs of crying when it had been signs of beating. How could I have been so blind?"

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks and looked at Molly with as much sympathy as she had ever seen on his face bafore.

So this is what I believe happened; "Tom kidnapped Toby to make you come to his apartment. He wanted to have a glass wine with you. He showed you that he had killed your cat and when you started to cry and got angry he hit you and you fell against the armchair. He tried to get to you again, but you shoved him away. He lost balance, fell and hit his head on the coffee table, which broke his neck. He was dead instantly. You decided to remove all the evidence that you had been there, because given his state of intoxication everyone would think he had just stumbled and hit his head. No third party negligence. And it would have worked, if his parents had not asked me to take the case."

A deafening silence settled. Sherlock was standing in front of Molly, staring down at her, while waiting for her to affirm that his deductions had been right. But Molly remained silent. She sat there with her eyes closed and tears streaming down her face.

The consulting detective didn't know what to do. He had never been in a situation before. Sure, there had been clients and culprits who had cried, but usually John had known what to do. Now John was not here and he felt at a loss.

But he knew he needed to do something to comfort her in some way.

He sat down on the coffee table so that he was sitting across from her.

His voice was low and soothing when he confessed, "How slow-witted I have been, and how nearly I committed the blunder of my lifetime! I honestly thought you were happy."

His admission made Molly open her eyes and sit up. She looked at him to gauge if he was being honest, of it was just another evil trick to get her to talk.

When she didn't find any sign of deceit, just honest concern in his face, she said, "I was. He was all honey when I first we met him – only eighteen months ago. Now I feel as if it were eighteen years."

She shook her head and brushed away the tears.

"Everything went well, 'til the wedding. He saw how I looked after you, and..."

She stopped for a moment to get her shaking voice under control, "I wanted to go after you when I saw you leave, but I dared not, because Tom would… He had always been jealous, but after the wedding it became so much worse. He drank more and more and then started to scream at me when I worked late and wanted to know if I had been with you. Then one night he slapped me. He instantly apologised and I knew he felt bad about it, and he assured me it would never happen again."

Molly looked down onto her hands, which were nervously fiddling with her trousers and continued, "But of course it happened again. And it got worse. I tried to end it, but somehow I couldn't. He was not only this bad man. He was also caring and loving and... But then one night he wanted to have sex, and I refused so he... Forced me and..."

Tears were streaming down her face again and dropped onto her hands in her lap.

"That's why I wasn't visiting you in hospital after you got shot. I couldn't. You all would have seen."

Sherlock felt his heart ache for her and wanted to do something, which he hardly ever felt the urge to – he wanted to touch her, to lay his hand on her shoulder, do draw her into an embrace and shield her from everything bad. But he didn't dare. So he remained where he was, intently listening to what his pathologist had to say.

"But that incident gave me the strength to finally end it. He threatened me of course, but I told him that you knew and would kill him if he tried anything. So he left me alone for the most part. Just texted me now and then when he was drunk."

Molly drew a hand over her face to brush the tears away.

"A lot of people did not know the real Tom. His family only wanted to see the best in him, naturally. But even as much as I wanted to believe it, he was not a good person."

She paused as she arranged her thoughts, and then went on, "And then two weeks ago I found this note in my mailbox that he had Toby and wanted to see me... Then everything got out of hand and he took me by the throat and hit me and..."

She looked down onto the floor again, ashamed and said in a small voice, "It happened like you said. I shoved him. He fell. And he was..."

She didn't finish the sentence, but left it hanging in the space between them.

Normally Sherlock would have felt satisfaction for solving such a complex case, for being right, but this time he didn't feel satisfied at all. He just felt empty. He didn't know what to do.

For a moment it seemed as though they had come to an impasse.

Molly was the first to speak again, "I'm glad you know."

She hadn't realized it was true until it tumbled out of her mouth. A part of her was relieved. Because a part of her had wanted him find out all along.

Sherlock felt rage bubbling up inside himself. He didn't know what he would have done to Tom, had he known, had he seen. He loathed Tom and he loathed himself for turning a blind eye.

"Why didn't you go to the police?"

Molly snorted. "So that they could enact a restraining order and he's have to stay 500 yards away? He would have just ignored it. And he would have gotten really angry. And you don't want Tom to be angry. Even I have seen enough police movies to know that no suspect who is under police protection survives."

Sherlock's expression became stern. "That's why you would have been under my protection."

Molly shook her head, as if that was an absurd thought.

"Why didn't you come to me, Molly?" He honestly didn't understand.

Molly looked at him. She was surprised he didn't understand. "I didn't want you to think me stupid and weak. For falling for such an arse again. For being helpless. For letting him do this to me."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "So it was pride that kept you from coming to me?"

Molly sighed sadly, "No, it was shame."

Silence settled once again, and for the umpteenth time Sherlock wished he knew what to do. He realised that he had not thought this whole thing through. He was prepared for this kind of emotional conversation, although it should have been expected. Be berated himself inwardly for not being better prepared.

Once again it was Molly who started talking again, "In a story there may be a fair prince or captain to save you, but in real life one is all on their own."

Her voice sounded so sad that Sherlock felt the urge to tell her that she was wrong; but he feared it would seem strange and dishonest coming from him. He who had said he didn't need friends or family, whose credo was that being alone was what protected him.

Molly sat up straight again, bracing herself for what she thought was about to happen know.

"I figure Greg is waiting outside." She tried her best not to sound too defeated.

Sherlock was appalled, "Is that what you think of me? That I would thank you for everything you've done for me by calling the police to turn you in!?"

Now Molly was confused. "So you're here because you think you owe me?"

"You are twisting my words. When have I ever done something, because I felt obligated?"

The pathologist could hardly argue with that. "But what does that mean? You are a consultant detective, you catch the culprits and you follow the law."

Sherlock regarded her calmly, because now he knew what to do. He had thought about this a lot and had come to a conclusion. "Once or twice in my career I feel that I have done more real harm by my discovery of the criminal than ever he had done by his crime. I had rather play tricks with the law of England than with my own conscience."

Molly still stared at him bewildered. He tried to explain it differently, "Our investigation has been independent, and our action shall be so also."

Molly's eyes widened when she finally understood what he meant. She was so overwhelmed that she couldn't even react when he took her hands in his and added, "Unfortunately, we cannot tell John either. He'd come up with some sensational title."

Thankful for him lighting up the mood, she suggested, "The poisonous pathologist."

Sherlock smiled, "Nice alliteration… Or what about The Detective and the Deadly Pathologist?"

Molly smiled as well and felt like a heavy weight has been lifted off of her chest.

Only now did Molly squeeze Sherlocks hands back.

"You know, John said you are a good influence on me," Sherlock told her.

Molly raised her eyebrows, "He might want to change his opinion on that."

The detective waived a hand. "He should be used to killers in the family by now."

Molly couldn't help but giggle. It felt good. She couldn't remember when she had done that the last time. But she stopped when she realised Sherlock was looking at her with an earnest expression.

"Sherlock?"

He cocked his head to the side as he regarded her. Not with his usual cold, deductive look, but with affection.

"You were wrong, you know? You are brave. You still dare to love after everything that has happened to you."

Molly felt nervous all of a sudden. She hadn't expected a compliment, especially not from this man. She smiled and said, "Now you've figured me out."

"I think there's still a lot to figure out about you, Molly Hooper."

Molly was drawn between pulling her hands back from his grip and leaving them there, just because it felt too nice. She was not sure what was going on or why Sherlock was acting so nice all of a sudden.

She decided to just ask, "So what happens now, Sherlock?"

He shrugged carelessly. "I will take care that something like what happened with Tom won't happen to you again."

"How?"

"I have found you a boyfriend. He is an arse from time to time, but would never aver hurt you in any way: me."

Molly only stared at him, as if he was mad. "What?"

Sherlock smiled a smug smile. "The Lexus is already waiting."

Molly shook her head confused, "We're going on a stakeout?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Not a stakeout. I brought coffee and scones. You know what that means..."

With a wink and a mischievous smile he pulled her up from the armchair and out the door.

 **The End**

* * *

 **A/N: Sherlock had a tough moral decision to make and I am sure not everyone agrees with him. Now you have the reason why I have chosen "The Adventure of the Abbey Grange", because it is one of two original Sherlock Holmes stories in which Holmes lets the culprits get away, because he sympathizes with them. And that proves to me more than anything that Holmes indeed has a heart and is able to show empathy.**


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